Just World Fallacy
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: Dark Fic. After Jules is assaulted, she and the team try to cope. Strong violence and adult content-explained fully in the A/N. Set AU during Season 2 after Lew's death. Jules centric but concerns all main characters.
1. Of The Lock

_A/N: I'm going to be completely honest and hope that you all don't think me a monster when you're done reading this. So SYuuri and I were having one of our conversations and she'd mentioned that was there were no fanfiction about Jules being raped. I said that's because it would have to be done perfectly because if the author screwed up at all, there goes the authenticity of the fic. I also said it would be interesting to write because of the reactions and because Jules lives in a male-centric world. After a long conversation with SYuuri about the possibilities, I agreed with some excitement (everything can't be fluffy family picnics) to undertake the task and we brainstormed the plot for this story. I wrote it as realistic without being too graphic, but it is disturbing. Your dear authoress needed to get up and check her door more than once while writing it. I ask from you, dear readers, only one thing: Please do not write me a review or a PM to tell me abhorring me for the story. It is **rated-M for your protection** and I will state it right now so there is no confusion that **the central plot revolves around Jules' rape**. Now there is no reason for misplaced rage._

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

**Double Disclaimer: Strong adult and violent themes. **

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter One

Of the Lock

The front stairs on her porch creak as she stomps on the old wood. That was going to be her next renovation project. It's getting too close to winter to replace the old gray boards now; she's going to have to wait until next May to tear up the front porch. The neighbors keep telling her that they see raccoons running underneath the decaying crosshatched lattice. Like she's supposed to drop everything and go under there with garden gloves and a garbage bag. She wanted to fix it up this year, but things happened. Things happened, like her chest getting in the way of armor piercing bullets. Four months of summer dragged by and her porch continued to rot like the stitches in her chest.

Her hand rifles through a pocket on her light fall jacket until the familiar jingle of her house keys greet her. She huffs and a curl of smoke escapes her mouth. She met the guys at the Goose, which happens to be about six or seven blocks from her house. They've had the last week and a half off to deal with Lew's death while the SRU runs trials for a replacement. Ed, Wordy, and Sarge, they're handling it better, with seniority, with experience, with memories and laughs. Spike's handling it by hitting the bottle pretty hard. The first week it was bad, just a spiteful string of words that ejected from his mouth along with the alcohol induced vomit in the cardboard and dumpster filled alley behind the bar. Sam copes by being unavailable. Mentally, emotionally, physically. It's his army boy gone AWOL routine. No one's heard from him since the funeral.

Tonight was one of the better nights. She doesn't understand why they have to meet up every single night, even if it's for a few drinks. She understands that Wordy and Ed have families, have more of a semblance of a life than she does, but the novelty and male bonding are starting to wear thin. After a beer and a half, she left first tonight. Sighed, stood and strolled home in the late October dusk. It's that eerie time of year where night comes to early and the cold comes on too strong.

Her mailbox gags on bills, random leaflets, the Wishbook from Sears. It's over two months until Christmas. She doesn't even want to think about Christmas. She opens the first decorative door to her house, the one that's all square frames and glass, the one she spent hours sanding down. She lets it rest against her back as she juggles the mail and her keys. Then she opens the thick, heavy, door to her house that's constructed out of solid wood. Inside is cold, dark, and unwelcoming even though she's been living there by herself for the last five years.

She tosses the mail onto an end table with stained distressed wood by the door. She picked it up at a garage sale one weekend. The mail splatters and splays out, taking over the surface of the table. The light switch isn't exactly centered but she slaps at the wall until the room lights up, and then kicks the door closed with a booted foot. Her keys land beside the mail and all three locks are done up, internal, bolt and chain. She doesn't live on the bad end of Toronto, but it's not like she lives in a gated community either.

Her living room is stale, unmoving, and stagnant. Santorini walls silently mock her while she throws her coat over the back of a mammoth armchair. It's assembly line new, she hasn't sat in it once. She bought it to read in, and then she got shot and spent four months immobile. Funny how the grass is always greener.

The pub's stench lingers on her. Beer and peanuts. Whiskey and cigars. If she listens she can hear the static hiss of TSN on the broken television that hangs over the bar. The guys are still there, Ed and Wordy trading inside barbs, Spike getting rowdier by the minute until everyone agrees that he's cut off. It usually happens around the third or fourth drink. He's a lightweight. Poor Sarge has to watch them all drown their sorrows in the bottom of a shot glass. It makes her feel awkward. Makes her feel guilty.

Another set of stairs, these ones are new. Reinforced. A rigorous weekend project with an ex-boyfriend. Not one she's going to mention. Not one she may have been thinking of since Lew died. Not one she's forced to see every day. Not one she hasn't seen for a week and a half. It makes her feel dirty, knowing that he's helped her with so many aspects of her house. Like it was his give to take her in the relationship. Like it makes their relationship unreal. Maybe she wants it to be fake.

The upstairs bathroom is a place of solace. She was finished remodeling it before she met him. She did it all herself. Laid every tile down with sniper still hands. The sought after outcome was modern, but the modern style appeared too unwelcoming. She stuck with the classic claw-footed bathtub and shower curtain. It's homey, it reminds her of the farm in Medicine Hat, of how grateful she was to have warm water and that four older brothers didn't use it up before it was her turn. Sometimes they would just let the taps on the tubs and the sinks run dry on purpose.

She shucks her clothes, jeans, long-sleeved top, tank underneath, bra, underwear, and socks. They weave a trail to the tub. To the shower. To whatever she wants to use it as. Really, who wants a tub; she would just be sitting in her own filth for an extended period of time. The hot water kicks in immediately. She had a new hot water heater put in nine months ago. She can afford these privileges because she doesn't have a family, doesn't have kids, and doesn't have prior responsibilities.

Steam evaporates from the porcelain basin. The water hits her back, it's hot enough to streak her skin with blushing red lines. When she steps out of the shower, the mirrors are cloudy, she's not reflected, she doesn't exist, she's unknown to the world. She tries not to remember the days when she would step out and uncover secret messages scrawled in the vapor on the mirror. Even in his absence he was omnipresent.

Towel swallowing her body, she pads feather lightly to her bedroom, her hair drops a bead of soft water every three steps. She paid for the hardwood. She'll use it however she pleases. A clean white cotton tank comes on, clean underwear, clean pajama pants. She finds a gray sweater hanging on the back of her door and pulls it on too. It's still a little too early to turn on the heat. Until November she can dress in layers.

The brush is ripping through her hair while she limps back to the bathroom, dragging the towel under her foot. She did after all pay to have the hardwood floors installed. Bangs are easily segregated from the majority of her hair and the rest of it goes up in a sloppy bun. She folds the towel into thirds and hangs it off of the shower rod to dry.

It's 8:28pm, completely dark outside since a particularly vicious storm knocked out the streetlight in front of her house last week. She wonders when the city is going to come fix it as she shuts off the light in the bathroom and heads downstairs to get a bottle of water. The constant aftertaste of beer hasn't been sitting well with her stomach lately, her liver's probably in a silent revolt.

The main level of her house is empty. The stairs don't speak as clean soles move over their wooden finish. Maybe she'll watch the news until she starts to feel tired, see what mishaps the team missed today. Probably nothing as drastic as landmines. They're the only team that seems to get landmines, the only team that gets military trained snipers. The only team that gets sent out on duty every active day. She can't remember the last day they just ran drills.

The fridge is barely being used for its purpose. There's five bottles of water in its innards, some leftovers from a few days ago and one of those baking soda ventilators. She shrugs and puts off going to the grocery store for tomorrow when she can comprehensibly make a list and slams the door. Magnets holding up takeout menus and pictures of her and the guys, including Lew, jiggle.

She crosses from the kitchen to the living room and back to the front door. She always double checks to make sure that she's shut off the porch light. One time she didn't and the neighbors actually knocked on her door at two in the morning and asked if it was necessary to not only waste electricity but to disturb the neighborhood. She thinks if these bankers and human resource personnel had to deal with half the shit she sees in a normal day their number set brains might explode.

The low hanging porch light is off. But something catches her eye. The pile of mail she thought she threw on her beach house styled table is in a stack, sorted from largest to smallest with the Sears catalogue on the bottom and her hydro bill on the top. The bottle of water starts to sweat in her hand as she stares at the motionless pile of mail with her eyebrows furrowed.

She shakes her head and turns to climb the stairs one final time for the night. If she's getting this mixed up after a one and a half beer buzz she's definitely not making it to tomorrow night's rendezvous at The Goose. Maybe, just to be safe, she'll take her cell phone with her upstairs. Just in case Team One is called in early. In case someone needs a ride home from the Goose and Sarge can't give it to them.

Descending the two steps she's absently embarked on, she bisects the room to get to her coat pocket and the cell phone within it. Only-in her peripheral she spots something different, something out of place. A large, black stain in the entrance to her kitchen. Her hand stops on her coat, light fabric rubberlike under her fingertips and she lets the perspiring water bottle roll down to the seat of the chair.

She knows what to do in this situation. Has training. The family next door, they don't have training. The most important thing is getting her phone and dialing 911. Whether this person knows what she's doing or not. Whether she loses the connection a second after it's made. They can trace it back to her. She may be an SRU officer, she may have training, but her gun is upstairs with her uniform in her closet.

"Hi Jules." The voice is calmer and closer than she expected. It also sounds familiar. She turns with the jacket draped over her arms and in the archway to her living room stands a guy she recognizes from two short-lived dinners and a slew of on the verge of obsessive phone calls.

"Scott?" She gives him the same look she gave the pile of mail a few minutes ago, cocked eyebrows and twitching lip. She hasn't had to deal with him in over a year. She dated him briefly, very briefly, before she and Sam got together. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I remember you said you were fixing up the place. I always wanted to see what you did." He's never been to her house before. She never gave him her address. Now he's standing in front of her, six foot tall frame, muscles bulging from every inch of him with his hands shoved in his jean pockets like he's a nervous kid with a schoolboy crush.

"That's great Scott. How did you get into my house?" Her fingers delve into the cold depression of her coat pocket. The tips touch the protector on the side of her phone and she's using her memory to find buttons, except they're all the same size and without physically observing the phone, she'll never guess what key is the '9' and what key is the 'T'.

"Oh." He chuckles nervously and rubs at the back of his thick neck. The toes of his boot kick at the floor leaving chucks of dirt lying on her hardwood. "Well, I saw you at that bar tonight. You were with that group of guys and then I didn't get a chance to talk to you before you left so I followed you."

He advances a step; it's a big one because of his stature. The light washes over him, highlighting his dark eyes, hair, and the wispy line of facial hair trailing his jaw line. "You look really beautiful tonight Jules."

"Scott." She holds up her hand to halt him, but the small of her back presses firmly into the armchair.

"Oh, I used your back door. It was easy to get into, you know being in the trade and all." He flashes a toothy grin and winks at her like it's an inside joke. Something about the action unsettles her even more.

"Scott." Her voice remains completely indifferent showing no impression of irritation or fear. "You need to leave."

He shakes his head, large hands leaving his pockets. They're still stained with dirt or oil or whatever else he's encountered on his job that day. "Jules. It's been over a year. I still think about you every day."

"Scott, you need to leave now."

"No," His voice booms through the empty cavern of the house, and his two hands make equally thick and craggy fists. "We had something good and—"

"You need to leave now, or I'm calling the cops." She pulls the phone out to show him she's not bluffing. Then quickly dials the first '9' and '1'.

He nods. It's a firm movement, his jaw set, his teeth clenched, his neck rigid and fibrous. Her hand relaxes on the phone because he appears to be leaving. He's half turned, heel of his boot digging into her floor. The muscles in his back clench and bunch through his shirt and he mumbles something before shouting in aggravation.

She registers his yell, but doesn't have time to jam her thumb into the fatal final '1' and press enter before a fist the size and density of a bowling ball connects straight with her unprotected eye socket. She staggers back against the armchair from the velocity and force of the strike. Her cell phone skitters to the ground and runs for protection under the couch.

By the time he's brought up his fist again, she has both her hands up ready to block it. Her mind tells her that this is no different than sparring with Spike in the workout room. She flings his arm back and shoves her elbow into his stomach. It's solid muscle, tissue feels carved from stone and the collision only makes him recoil for a second.

She tries to run, bare feet slipping over her split blood on the floor. He reaches a hand forward catching the wad of her hair the bun provides and flings her against the Santorini wall. Picture's hiccup and there's a brief black smudge in her view after her head cracks off the drywall. She kicks at him, just missing his groin because of her lapse in vision and he smashes her back into the wall again. Pictures leap to their death. There's a familiar pain in the left side of her back. A stuttered burning every time she inhales that only grows stronger with each breath she takes.

As she tries to inhale he reloads his fist. Her arms are sluggish and stiff because of the fire in her lungs and after the impact of his knuckles, she sags to her side on the ground. Her mouth is warm and tastes salty, tastes like pennies. She coughs, gasps, makes a noise that she would never in a million years admit to making and then he kicks her in the chest.

He kicks her where six months earlier a bullet ripped through her. Ribs that were newly healed crack under his boot, tissue that was newly fused breaks and disintegrates. Everything that she worked so hard for unravels and her vision becomes blurred with a plague of a thousand tiny black dots. Her body convulses as she still tries to push up. To stand, to sit, to crawl. She hears metal clacking over her own heavy gurgled breathing and then the sound of a zipper being undone.

"No."

She claws at the floor with her nails trying to pull her failing body to safety. The dirt clods from his boots are imbedded in her cheek, in the wounds where her blood flows freely. He flips her over in a fluid movement that has the back of her head bouncing off the ground. Then he's on top of her and she feels her clothes dislocating from her body. She swings at him again and a single hand twists her right arm at an awkward angle. There's a crack, a new burst of pain, it's brief and then unnoticeable as it flows in with the rest.

She claws at him with her other hand, digs jagged nails into his tattooed skin until she feels the stickiness of blood. She can't see that well anymore, tunnel vision slowly growing dimmer. Her legs flail as if disconnected from her body. She screams and screams and screams because someone has to hear. They noticed the raccoons. They noticed the porch light. She screams until his fist comes down one final time like a gavel on her face and unconsciousness is immediate.

Just once, she wakes up. It's a split second montage of a million pictures, a million pains, a million lifetimes. It's feeling everything and nothing all at the same time. She doesn't do more than open her eye before his fist thrashes down her face again.

It's challenging to open her left eye the next time. The lashes are covered in a mixture of sweat and blood that's drying and ripping them out by the roots. Her right eye won't open at all. She notices the spiral stucco pattern on her ceiling, the still shadows from her track lighting. Pain floods her body like water does lungs when someone drowns. The feeling is overbearing, like her pinky finger alone is tied to thirty pounds of rocks. Despite the agony, she wastes no time in case he is still here. In case this is an intermission. In case he's taking a bathroom or lunch break.

She rolls very slowly onto her stomach, like an empty barrel floating in the ebb of the tide. Her hands thrust palm first against hardwood floors and slip against blood. Her lungs smolder, the broken bones built up around them like a funeral pyre. Through her mouth she inhales and exhales in quick successions and places her cheek back against the floor. Her hair tumbles in greasy wisps over her face. It doesn't smell like her shampoo. It doesn't smell like anything.

Five feet away underneath the red couch is the cell phone, untouched, un-mauled, and intact. Her withered feet with curled toes ram into the floor to propel her forward at an inch at a time. The gravity of the room is a centrifuge, the solid floor pushes up against her pulverized body and hurts every inch of it, her shoulders, her fingertips, her hips, her thighs as she slides across the ground and forces herself to remain silent. Her pajamas, inexplicably replaced back on her body, constrict her breathing, her actions, and her thoughts. The material touching skin feels acid dipped.

With a huff she collapses the few inches back onto the floor. Her battered cheek digs into the ruts between the pieces of wood and she scans underneath the couch. The remainder of her depth perception tells her that the phone should be within arm's reach. Her left hand untangles from her body experimentally, and fingertips brush the plastic casing on the phone again. She retracts the device like it's worth its weight in gold and the three numbers she entered before are still engaged on the screen. A bloody thumb pad presses enter and she cradles the phone to the side of her face.

It rings once. Then twice. For each period between rings, she breathes in and out six times. Finally there's a click and an unfriendly voice of a female operator. "9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

* * *

><p><em>Next chapter - From a lot of male's POVs<em>


	2. Male Bonding

_A/N: Hey Guys. Thanks for the lovely reviews to the last chapter. I'm glad so many of you were able to see past the rape as an act and to the effect it has on everyone. Thanks to those who favorited and alerted and all that.  
>Three things:<br>First off, I'm very sick right now, so if there are mistakes in the piece (I even read it over a fourth time) please don't bite my head off. I'm literally alive right now because of Vic's and ginger ale.  
>Secondly, without spoiling too much, <strong>the middle section of this piece gets very adult, meaning f-shots and talks of doing it<strong>. So if that's not your thing, skip the middle part (story is still M-rated and I'm taking advantage of that by being as lurid as I can possibly be and purposely using words and subject matter I don't like and that Flashpoint fanfic hasn't touched on yet).  
>Lastly I didn't do this properly last time, but a big thanks to SYuuri who is always there for me to bounce my ideas off of, help me with reactions and such, and there to push me when I won't write. You guys are probably gonna get a chapter of DA, DT by Monday because of her, so buy her a drink. Thanks again SYuuri!<em>

**Disclaimer: F-shots and talks of doing it. **

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 2

Male Bonding

The television suspended above the pine bar plays the latest sports game in segments like it's the framework to a stop motion animation. The owners really need to consider junking that TV. It's damaged goods. He's still nursing his second beer, which is a feat considering he and the guys have been at the pub for almost four hours. It's nearing 11:00pm and excuses will soon be fabricated. Wordy has to get home to a very understanding Shelley and three sleeping girls, Spike has to sneak back into his parents house and Greg has to drive them there.

"You know." Wordy sets his tan bottle down on the table, and points to no one in particular. He's still on beer number one. He's not drunk. None of them are. After a week and a half of keeping this ritual, Ed suspects that the Boss's plan of getting them sick of the sauce is working. "Lew always ate the Dutchie."

"Are you saying that you wanted the Dutchie?" Greg's question escapes as a burst of laughter. During Team One's fourteen day wake ritual, Greg's drink of choice has shuffled from water, ginger ale, and different types of pop. Today it is 7-Up. Ed wonders if there's any rhyme or reason to the way the Boss picks his poison. Or if he just thinks of the first drink that comes to his mind. The day Greg orders chocolate milk is the day they need to stop holding these meetings.

"No." Wordy elongates the declaration, shakes his head, and leans back in the chair. No one ever wants the Dutchie and the damn things have been around since the beginning of time. Whenever Team One partakes in the delicacy of a twelve pack of doughnuts from Timmy's, the drive-thru girls stick a one in. Ed doesn't know if it was because poor Lew never made it to the cardboard box of doughnuts on time, but he always got the sticky leftover Dutchie.

"That guy loved raisins," Spike mumbles, he's leaning against his hand, lips turned into his palm. "It's disgusting how much he liked raisins." Resentment is usually step two in Spike's pilgrimage into drunkenness, except that he's only on his second beer too. It took the team two days to master the art of cancelling the waitress from clearing the table of Spike's empty bottles. It took one more day to learn that four beers is a good place to stop him if you don't want the hassle of a sloppy possible violent SRU officer. Five beers is a good stop if you want a challenge.

Ed grabs his bottle by the neck, fingers wringing around the russet glass. There's an inch and a half left of beer lining the bottom. After that, there's no reason why he can't go home to Sophie, who bless her, is running out of patience with these frat boy games. Just as he brings the lip of the bottle to his mouth, the front pocket of his jeans become musical with the generic ring of his cell phone.

On cue, all three of his teammates begin to grumble boisterous reminders that there are no calls from wives when they're within the confines of the Goose. It's an unfair rule that they constructed on the first night when Shelley called Wordy three times in the first hour. It's unfair because only he and Wordy have wives. It's unfair because only he and Wordy can feel their wraith.

"Hey, hey, hey." Wordy finishes off the beer in his first bottle and points at the phone. "You know the rules. No wives."

"Yeah." Spike's voice is unenthusiastic and his arms are lazily crossed over his chest. "It's male bonding time."

"Yeah, well it's my brother, Roy." Ed brandishes the caller I.D. because the guys will either challenge the phone call's validity or make qualms about it later. Roy hasn't phoned in the last six weeks, so getting a random call this late on a Wednesday night is a little surprising. "I think I'm going to get it."

Greg shrugs and takes a sip of his 7-Up. Wordy turns his attention back to Spike, who is clearly not drunk, but in a vindictive mood. "Do you know what would happen to you if Jules was here? You can't call this 'male bonding'."

"Hey Roy, what's going on?"  
>"Yeah?" Spike sits up in his chair and slides his two empty beers forward. They jitter across the uneven tabletop. He doesn't appear anxious to get his hands on a third as the waitress saunters by him and he shakes his head at her. "By that logic we couldn't call it male bonding if Sam was here either."<p>

Ed and Wordy break into raucous laughter, even Greg chuckles a bit before setting down his pop and regaining the stern glower on his face. With a single wag of his finger he warns, "Settle down, Spike." But he does it with a snigger.

"Did you hear what I said Ed?"

"No," Ed chuckles into the phone and shakes his head. His bent elbows bear down on the wooden table and above them the pendant light sways like a pendulum in the hazy atmosphere of the pub. "Sorry Roy, what do you want?"

"I'm on shift; I shouldn't even be calling you-"

He sighs loud enough so he's sure that Roy can hear it. Why is he constantly cleaning up Roy's messes? They both did the same training to become cops; he doesn't understand how his little brother can screw things up so badly sometimes. "Then don't call me Roy."

"I'm just saying, he gets two weeks off to recover with us and he goes and hangs out with that Lexus girl instead? What kind of name is that anyway?" Spike re-crosses his arms and his nose starts twitching. He's staring at the beer bottles with distraction. His mouth is speaking words that his brain isn't hearing. "That's a car's name, not a girl's. Her parents obviously had high expectations."

"Enough Spike." Greg shakes his head and uses his final warning tone.

"I'm at Toronto General, Ed. One of your teammates is here."

Ed chuckles and runs a hand over his face. God damn it, Sam. He probably took that Lexi-girl to a club and had an altercation with the local natives. It's because of Sam's mindset; he punched some guy expecting him not to punch back. This is why you go out drinking with the team when you'd rather be at home with your wife and son, because the team knows how to handle you. The team knows what you're going through. "Did he get into a fight?"

"Ed" There's a pause and he listens to his brother clear his throat. "It's a woman. Her last name is Callaghan."

Ed doesn't say a word as his brother babbles in his ear about what letter he thinks her first name starts with. How he took her statement, how she barely said a word. The phone slips from his hand and bounces off the faux wooden finish on the table. Greg glances at him a minute before motioning to Wordy and Spike to silence themselves. The three men watch him. Ed finds the phone using his peripheral vision and brings it back to his ear.

"Ed, are you still there?"

"Yeah." The word gets stuck behind the ball of congealed beer in his throat.

"Like I said, I wouldn't have called, but she's beaten pretty badly and she won't let us call anyone. So if you know her next of kin—"

"Roy." He shakes his head and washes a hand over his sticky, sweaty eyes. The Goose is hotter, it's growing smaller, there's no air inside of it. When his hand touches his forehead it comes back clammy. It can't be her. He's worked with her for six years. She can defend herself, he's sparred with her before and sometimes she's actually hurt him, though he'd never admit it. They always make the rookie practice with her as rite of passage, but Sam sparred with her in a different way, so Spike got stuck in sparring limbo. "There's no way that it's Jules."

All three men watch him intently, not knowing the full extent of the conversation. Blissfully not knowing as much as he does. Instead they all watch him for tell signs. They watch him with straight lips and slanted eyebrows like a trio of Jack O'Lanterns. They listen intently over the needle scratching of the sports highlights.

"Her first name is Julianna. J-U-L-I-A-N-N-A. Two 'N's. She has brown hair and brown eyes. She—"

"Ed, right now I can't tell what color her eyes are."

He swallows hard and the tennis ball of beer in the back of his throat bobs with the motion. "Okay. Thanks Roy." His brother tries to apologize, or speak further, or offer condolences but he doesn't hear them because he hangs up the phone and stares back at his dwindling team.

"What's going on Eddy?" Greg asks. The Boss knows their bonded evening is violated; he's reaching into his wallet for a wad of bills to pay the tab.

"Roy said that Jules is at Toronto General."

"What?" Spike's eyes burst open, suddenly alert and awake. His fingers burrow into the edge of the table and the five beer bottles dance upon the tabletop. "Why?"

"Roy said she was hit."

Spike's eyes grow wider. "By a car?"

Ed lowers the lids of his eyes and cocks his head to the side. In a voice that's deep and skeptical of Spike's question he responds, "By a person." Although for the last four years Spike's been Jules sparring partner. Ed's seen him limp out of the workout room more than once.

"No." Wordy's teeth grind against each other, and in the warm light of the pub, his eyes glisten. He roots around in his pocket for something. Maybe a tip. Wordy and his tips. "Not Jules."

Ed shrugs; he can feel his own eyes grow wet and itchy. This isn't happening. Jules is fine at home. Wordy won't have to go through the emotional trauma and in four days time Spike will have a new bruise from the hand-to-hand combat which they'll all likely push on Jules and not tell her why. "Roy is unreliable."

"It's still better to be safe than sorry." Greg stands from the table and he follows suit, not sure of what to do. This doesn't seem real. It can't be real. They just lost Lew. The foggy ambiance, the cacophony of the pub makes it hard to understand anything. "I'll drop you guys off, but I'm going to swing by the hospital just to check."

Wordy holds up his phone. Her number is highlighted on the screen along with a small symbol of a green phone. "Guys, she's not picking up."

"Let's go."

* * *

><p>"Sam, you haven't touched your pasta."<p>

He looks down at the deep, hip curved dish. It's china, maybe bone china. Something his mom would have in the front cabinet and only bring out on special occasions. The pasta is bowtie, gentlemanly, thick, al dente, greasy with olive oil and mixed with a wide cornucopia of sea creatures. He hates seafood.

Through half lids and lowered eyebrows he observes his date, Lexus. She's twenty-six though he doesn't trust her when she says that or much else. They met at a gym, he was just there to meet a friend but she was giving him the fuck-me eyes and sauntered like a roadside DUI right into him. She twirled a strand of her hair around her blinged-out finger while she spoke to him. She has a baby voice. It gets annoying quick.

The dress she's wearing is obviously a size too small for her. It's supposed to have decorative ruffles in the pattern, but they're imaginary. The salmon color is offset by her forged orange tan, which clashes with her white nails decorated with pink lotus flowers. Her nails are talons, claws, hooks. They're weapons of mass destruction because they're unnatural and she's as awkward with them as a fawn taking its first steps. Only the first step is always right on his cornea.

Her lips move with the velocity of a motor fan. It's been two weeks and he's already learned the art of tuning her out. Instead of the nasal impression of an auctioneer, he receives the slightly less infuriating pantomime of lips smacking off each other. With all the exercise her mouth gets during the day he thought she'd be talented when it came to using it for less traditional methods, he was wrong.

She seizes an arm away from the table, where both of her elbows were previously mashing into the white tablecloth. Lexus has the table manners of a toddler; she never uses a knife and vouches instead to push food onto her fork with her thumb while her tongue sneaks out of the side of her mouth. Using her spaghetti sauce stained hand; she fixes her hair, dragging five fingers through the tangled mess. He hates her hair the most. It's black with streaks of brass and copper. When they have sex it's like sleeping with a blonde, brunette and red-head at once because she's all over the place. It's trashy beyond belief and the dye has seeped past her roots and into her brain. It's made her tripolar.

Her hand starts to limp across the table, pulling at the cloth and worming it's way directly towards his hand. Casually, as if no forethought is involved, he folds his hands into his lap. All he can think is how much he hates her. She thinks this is a legitimate relationship when all he wanted was someone to go drinking with who he doesn't ache for physically. For someone to fuck away the pain with so it wouldn't mean a thing. Apparently this does mean something to Lexus. He doesn't know what he feels worse about. Sleeping with her or that she actually thinks their relationship will last longer than the milk in his fridge.

His phone sings from the back pocket of his dress pants and he ignores it. It must be 11:00pm by now, but because she wanted to try this restaurant on the night of the grand opening, they had to wait to eat. He examines the tub full of invertebrates that have been stewing on the ocean floor and his lead stomach blossoms. Maybe over the ridges on a shrimps back. Maybe because it still has legs. Maybe because he hates the decisions he's made lately and there's no one to blame this time.

Lexus made him order this dish so that she can periodically sneak a fork across the table and jam pieces into her useless mouth. When he was with Jules he ordered whatever he wanted and she didn't care, she kept her hands on her own food and they were fine. One time at work, she walked past him while he ate some fries and grabbed a stray one from the paper bag. When they got home that night he was insatiable.

The thought of waking up next to Lexus makes him physically cringe. He wants to heave up what little pasta he's eaten. He longs to abandon her and go get a burrito. He's forbidden to be with a burrito. When she glances up at him, lips still undulating like mud flaps behind the wheels of a big rig, he pulls a tense smile. Her body is too lengthy, too gangly, too bony with too many sharp edges that he injures himself on, she's like the skeleton hanging in a doctor's office.

He always uses protection too. She says she doesn't have anything. She says she's on the pill. He doesn't trust her at all. He vaguely remembers the typeset of girl she falls under. He knew a few of them in high school. She probably has something and he doesn't want to catch it, he doesn't want to touch her, he doesn't want to look at her. He aches for the past.

A few months ago he was sitting in the Goose. He and the guys had gone out for a post-debriefing drink, Jules had prior plans. Her plans were him. They were supposed to grab some takeout and fix her stairs because the wood wouldn't stop squeaking. He told her they needed the whole weekend, but she argued that it could be done in a night. They didn't want to appear suspicious, so he went with the guys. Lew, Spike and him were in the booth while the others were having a philosophical debate at the bar.

He glanced at his watch, did the fake gasp and got up to leave because it was nearing nine. If he left now, he could still make it to Jules house on time to help her make up the couch because she'd obviously destroyed the stairs by now. It was also a work day tomorrow.

"Hey, hey," Spike protested while Sam shimmied out of the booth.

"Settle down, man." Lew put a large hand on Spike's shoulder, the contact immediately calming their friend. "Samtastic's obviously got a date lined up."

Sam responded with a typical lopsided grin that bared more teeth than it should.

"You got a bulletproof vest man?"

"A what?"

Spike and Lew chuckled to each other. Sure he was still the rookie to the team, but why would he need to take gear out on a date?

"Nah." Lew shook his head and beckoned him closer. As he moved back towards the faux wooden table, Lew held out his hand and when Sam reached out his own, Lew slapped it in a casual handshake but also slipped a condom into his palm. "A bulletproof vest," he repeated with his head tilted forward and angled eyebrows. Spike watched with amusement.

"Oh," he nodded, his face burst with redness. "Thanks."

He'd never felt more mortified or insecure in his life. He left the bar and felt their searing eyes burning into the back of his head from the front window. He threw out the condom. He didn't need it. He and Jules—they didn't need it.

The jingle of his phone echoes through the almost empty restaurant, and the lingering staff who already pull nasty faces at him, escalate their expressions further. He retrieves the phone from his back pocket and disengages the sound.

"I wish you wouldn't answer your phone during dinner." Lexus is incorrectly using a salad fork to stab at the oysters or whatever disgusting things are crawling about in his pasta. She uses her thumb to slide the gelatinous blob of mucus onto the fork. He's done eating.

"I didn't answer it. I turned off the sound."

She shrugs and speaks with her mouth full, "I don't know why we can't just have a nice dinner."

He wants to tell her that he didn't get to pick the restaurant, or his own meal, or his dinner guest because when he came home from a jog today she was waiting outside his apartment building. On the table his phone seizes with a new text message.

"Sam," she warns. Thin eyebrows turn into two checkmarks. This, whatever this thing is, his sexual release and her delusion will be over by midnight. "Don't you get that phone."

The phone is in his hand and he's already checking his messages because he honestly doesn't give a flying fuck about what she says anymore. He'll pay for supper, but then he never wants to see her again. "It's work," he lies. He hasn't even engaged the screen that tells him who called.

She scoffs and probably rambles off that machine gun mouth some more but he's too focused to notice. It's a text from Wordy. It's just one line. Four words. 'Jules in Toronto General.' It's a little too drastic to be the excuse he was looking for. He would've taken a telemarketer as an opportunity to bolt out of there. He stares at the four words and tries to make heads or tails of their meaning. Jules. In. Toronto. General.

Jules. He stands from the table and retrieves the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. Toronto General. His pupils contract, glued to the four word novel. His heart is a punching bag, the beats are a bass line. Jules, she was just in the hospital six months ago. So much has changed in six months. She's in the hospital. Why is she in the hospital? She's in the hospital.

"Sam, where are you going?" The hospital.

He doesn't answer. He turns and ambles at an exceeding rate to the exit of the restaurant. The screen of the phone is still his main focus. The hospital. He needs to put the phone away before he starts to drive to Toronto General. He leaves Lexus with the bill.

* * *

><p>The automated door slides open, groaning to reveal the frenzied bowels of the Toronto General Emergency department. It's past 11:00pm, but there are still mothers cradling their children while rocking in the shackled waiting room chairs. The change in atmosphere is immediate; the air is humid, warm and sour like bad breath. It smells antibacterial and like metal.<p>

Ed checks him in the shoulder while making a beeline towards the triage nurse who is set up behind a thick layer of glass. She's like the pope on display. Like the guard to Oz. When he glances back, Wordy's face is mere sentences away from fragmenting and Spike's rubbing his hands together. The alcohol smell is so brutal because Spike took advantage of the copious amounts of disinfectant dispensers lining the entrance. Toronto is on the cusp of flu season.

"What?" Spike's hands continue to make friction even after the sanitizer is gone; smoke will be produced and start to billow from between his fingers soon. They all have their quirky ways of dealing with this situation.

"Greg." Ed's legs are spread out, his back hunched and his hand digging into his side of the triage station. Greg knows his team better than any other six people—five people on the planet. Ed's coping with the idea of Jules being hurt with denial which detonates his irritation easily.

The triage nurse, who is young, looks in her early twenties, has black curly shoulder-length hair that balances with her dark skin appears to be the catalyst for Ed's emotions. She sits on the office chair with her legs crossed and an eyebrow raised at whatever Ed has just said. "I cannot give out information on patients," she apparently repeats, her voice dripping with attitude.

"I understand that." Ed's voice is turning choppy. Each word is its own sentence as he tries to articulate his point to this girl. "But she's our friend."

The nurse writes something on a chart and without glancing up informs, "It doesn't matter how well you know her. Because of the circumstances, I can't let you in."

"What circumstances?" Wordy sneaks into the space between Ed and himself. Now all of them crowd the triage station. It reminds Greg of the time they went to see the Leaf's game together. They weren't this close to rink side, but it was a good time.

"We know her better than anyone else you could call. Like she takes cream and no sugar in her coffee." Ed crosses his arms and pauses for a moment before adding. "Which is just sacrilegious."

"Her shoe size is eight, but she'll argue with you until you agree it's a nine."

"She's right-handed, but she's started hitting me in the face with her left hand during sparring sessions to liven things up."

Greg wants to add that every year on her birthday since she first started at the SRU, he's slipped a card between the metal slots in her locker. None of the guys know when her birthday is, she made it completely clear that she does not want a celebration of any sort. Two years ago he contemplated stopping the cards, but she caught him on the way out of headquarters, almost in tears. He didn't ask what was wrong, but she hugged him and left just as quickly. So every year before she arrives for her shift, he sneaks into the woman's locker room and slips the card in. This year will be the seventh year.

Instead of mentioning this, he gives a weak smile, pencil line thin, not even reaching the corners of his mouth. The guys retreat to give him room to talk down the unresponsive triage nurse. "We'd just really like to make sure our friend is okay."

"And it's really commendable but—"

"You can't let us in. I get it." He chuckles and reaches back into his pocket. "You're doing your job extremely well. The case is flagged, but we're cops." He slides the badge towards the glass until it stands on end, thunking against the inch thick glass. "We're all cops. Jules is a cop. We just want to see her."

The nurse sighs and rolls her eyes. "I might be able to let one of you through." A statement she expresses by holding up her index finger. "But the Nurse Manager will have to approve it. He handled the case."

She stands from the chair, letting it roll back into the hysteria of the ER. Her arms hug half a dozen charts to her chest and before she turns to leave, she halts and leans close to the glass. The hole cut within it is their only method of communication like a prison visitation room. "Just to let you know, there was already a cop here to take her statement about the rape. And he was in uniform. And he didn't smell like booze."

Greg is a human statue. The others might be too. He's not sure, he doesn't notice them. He just watches the nurse as her pink scrubs disappear into a sea containing all the hospital personnel. His badge clunks as it falls over. In his chest his heart sinks until it's under his shoes on the floor. An acrid taste rises in the back of his throat, something he remembers from his years as a drunk. With a spit-filled mouth, he swallows and it plummets to his stomach. The palms of his hands sweat against the counter, his fingers slide. Jules is somewhere through that glass. He'd like to borrow some of Eddy's denial right now.

Behind him, he barely hears Spike breathe, "Whoa."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Someone gets to see Jules and someone else is injured. Feel free to guess, wager or hope. <em>


	3. Heterotopias of Deviation

_A/N: Hey guys. Thanks so much for the reviews and the story/author favorites. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far and that I'm hopefully still doing it justice. I'm not going to lie, writing Spike for this chapter was probably the most fun I've had writing in a while. Pure uninhibited stream of consciousness without going full Wolf makes me jolly, although I'm certain that he may come off a little more insane than he should. Of course if you have any questions as always feel free to send me a PM. _

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 3

Heterotopias of Deviation

His hands rub together. Calloused fingertips grind against each other, heated friction uprooting the dry skin on his knuckles. The dead flakes are the same color as the decaying and half-eaten fish that wash up on the lakeshore. The healthy skin grows a blushing red from the overexertion. The color of coy crimson that attractive girls wear on their cheeks during the relentless Toronto winters. In summer their cheeks are the same color, but it's fake, it's false, it doesn't mean a damn thing. In the summer his whole body turns three shades darker than the accosting tint on his knuckles. Lobster red. Heatstroke red. Canadian in Jamaica red. He still has a band, just a shade lighter than those dead fish, looping around his torso at his hips from his pre-Ocho Rios life.

The sole of his left shoe taps Morse code against the ground. He distinguishes each individual stitch in the seams slashed into the leather. Each individual depression in his hand where the skin folds to create a gorge. Each individual black fleck in the tawdry linoleum floors that are sectioned off into perfect squares like a troop of Toronto's finest are going to burst into the stagnant ER room with canine units and start a square-by-square search for some missing little girl.

"I understand that we all want to—"

The automated doors slide open. An older lady hobbles in. The automated doors slide closed. His foot captured within a dress shoe does three quick, consecutive taps against the floor. He's worn the same shoes every day since Lew's funeral. He only takes them off when he goes to sleep. Carefully unstrings the laces, lets them hang languidly at the sides and places the paired heels together just under the frame of the bed.

"I don't understand why it has to be you Greg?"

Three longer, consecutive taps. The automated doors slide open. Mother with a baby. Behind him a middle-aged fat guy who has about five years before his first major heart attack pounds coins into the vending machine. The automated doors slide close. The machine whirs out a candied or salted treat full of saturated fat. His thumbs rub against each other and sound like match heads striking off of sandpaper.

"Do you really think you're in the right state of mind to see her, Eddy?"

Three blunt, consecutive taps. Fat guy hits the machine and gurgles in the back of his throat. More change goes into the machine. Automated doors open, then close, then open. A pair of paramedics argue on the mechanical threshold. More change goes into the machine. Plunk, plunk, plunk. Sweaty thumbs mash keys.

"Wordy, do you want to talk—"

Three short taps. Ker-plunk. Coke shoots out of the machine like a grenade launcher. Doors open. Three long taps. Fat guy stops it with a sandaled foot and a raspy grunt. Doors close. Three short taps. Doors open. Pop can hisses a warning.

"I don't think I can."

Three short taps. Door opens. Pop foam splats against floor. Three long taps. Skin ripping skin. Doors close. Three short taps. Static on intercom. Three short taps. Doors open. Hacking mucus. Three long taps. Doors close. Three short taps. Heartbeat in his ears. Blood on his hands. Ginger beer. The ocean rocking you. Brings you full circle.

"Spike."

His vision jitters until the three men before him come into focus. Sarge stands two or three feet away, on a bisecting line in the floor. Concern cracking through his facial features like it's an ancient Roman amphora. Ed's akimbo a few feet further, arched eyebrow as if he's trying to gage actions, surroundings. Maybe he's looking for the sierra shot. Wordy sits in the seats perpendicular to his, the seats against the washroom wall. His fingers all bunched up at his mouth like his hands were a car crash that melded together.

"Spike, you alright buddy?"

Dot. Dot. Dot.

"Yeah I'm fine." Except he's not. His foot is taping so fast that it sounds like a helicopter propeller. How are they supposed to make out the dashes if his foot is taping this fast? No wonder no one is coming.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm good." Dashes don't work on linoleum. Why couldn't the floor have more of a reverberation like a solid tin? His thumbs whittle against his forefingers as he contemplates a solution. Maybe shorter breaks? He could use a break.

Dash. Dash. Dash.

"Spike, you're rocking pretty hard there." Ed discharges his hands from his hips and crosses them over his chest.

"I'm fine."

Dot. Dot. Dot.

There. Done. Break time. Saunter over to Winnie's desk and pick from the doughnuts. He loves the festive ones, the ones with the sprinkles. The ones that remind him of holidays and childhood. The ones that crunch in his mouth and stick to the crowns of his molars. Dutchie for Lew. Boston cream for Jules.

"I have to pee." If anybody says anything he doesn't hear it. Not over the heterotopian symphony occurring in his head. A displacement of normal thoughts fusing together with the piercing feedback that overhanging speakers give at retirement parties. I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for all of you. It's hard to think, like the receptors in his brain have shut off. He's not creating proper data connections. It's hard to move, like metal has been soldered onto all his joints and his dress shoes and pockets are filled with stones. It's hard to feel.

The bathroom is just on the other side of Wordy's row of seats. He drives into the door with a shoulder. Shoves by the little white man, the door's solitary sentinel who shares his color with the dead fish and probably countless bodies in the morgue.

Lew never got to be one of those bodies. When the smoke settled there was barely anything left to identify him. A shoe and a leg from below the knee. It was the left foot. They could tell from the shoe, laces still double knotted. It was just pure luck that all of Team One was present to identify the cold cut remains of his best friend. The paramedics and other cops asked "Did you know him?" And what the fuck was he supposed to say? Not the shin part, I was more familiar with his face. The face which launched up into the concrete above and well, Gallagher and melons.

There's one stall and one urinal and no one else present in the room. Why aren't there more accommodations for the emergency room? Flu season is coming and this place is going to be packed, you'd think that there would be more than one—He doesn't even care. Button's undone, zipper's unzipped and then a steady stream of digested Molsons hits the porcelain backboard. He shakes, flushes and leans his forehead against the wall above the urinal. It's dangerous, it's a hospital bathroom and who knows what microscopic voodoo might be crawling around on these subway tiles. He might end up with pinkeye.

He, Jules and Lew used to be close. He wonders if anyone else on Team One remembers that time. Maybe it was a fabrication of his imagination, like one of their subjects. A high school student who sits in the dark patch at the back of class and sighs because he wants to be part of the cool crowd but instead just digs his pen head into the wooden desktop etching 'Zepplin Rules' into the grainy flesh.

He arrived bonneted and bundled on the SRU doorstep three years ago. On the same day Wordy put pepper spray on his gear and when he pulled the plastic face shield down on his helmet, well he couldn't see for the rest of the day. He acted nonchalant, like it was no big deal that his eyeballs swelled to the size of grapefruits, that tears sprayed out from his ducts like a showerhead. But it took a long time for him to start talking again. Talking about things other than bombs and chemicals.

Jules was the one who helped him find the locker room. He was pawing his way down unknown hallways, hand on the wall, and pressing on doors, just hoping he wasn't close to the dreaded 'Jules' room. As it happened he was and Jules exited just before he tumbled in. She brought him into the refuge of her locker room, sat him down on a bench and told him to keep blinking and not to touch his face.

He heard the door slam and called out, but the room was silent except for the sibilant whisper of an exhaust fan coming from behind him. His elbows dug into his thighs while eyes blinked rapidly until a dull headache grew behind them from the muscle exertion. He discerned the tile pattern on the floor. Jules' purse sat beside him, just lying out in the open, unprotected because she didn't share this room with a soul.

The door burst open again, and he constructed her fuzzy outline approaching him with something in her hand. There was a tearing sound, like a thick rapper being removed. In the blurriness, she grabbed his hand and placed a strong solvent smelling wet-nap in his palm. "Use this to wipe your eyes."

So he rubbed at his eyes with it. The same way he'd seen his mom take off her makeup for years. After a few minutes the stinging actually decreased and he let out a genuine laugh that must have looked like a Christian revival with all the tears. He found out later that it was covered in a solution that actually dissolved the pepper spray. He found out much later that Jules gave the guys so much shit for his hazing that they all stepped lightly for the next few days.

He repaid her. Sort of. Later that week, he was collecting his things in the locker room after a shift. Still timid and untalkative with the guys, who'd all disappeared to prior engagements. He thought more pepper spray waited for him around every corner. When he stepped out into the hallway he heard guffaws echoing from the briefing room. Familiar throaty laughs that after one incident resulting in temporary blindness he remembered as Rolie's and Ed's.

Jules marched around the corner shortly after the intimidating sounds. She was wearing a white dress that gave the allusion of her having plans that night. Except than on the left side of her torso was a red splotch the size of a baseball. She explained that Rolie and Ed, who decided to stay late to finish up paperwork, became clumsy with their leftover chicken wings when they saw her attire. "I should be used to it," she sighed and gestured to her ruined dress. "I grew up with four brothers."

"Yeah, but I grew up with an Italian mother." He beckoned her to follow him and they moved to a small kitchenette that still hardly gets used. He reached in and pulled out the club soda that Sarge seemed to add to everything. Later Lew would explain about their boss's prior alcoholism. He would've used the vinegar and baking soda from the fridge ventilator, but he didn't think Jules wanted to go on her date smelling like a French fry cart. A tablespoon of the liquid melted away the stain and she smiled a genuine thank you.

He, Lew and Jules were the younger part of Team One. They grouped together at the meets and social functions. The retirement parties that always had a way of turning sour for the older guys. The Christmas party, which always injected a false euphoria in everyone. Lew always brought a different girl and grew weary of her halfway through the party. Then all three of them would see how long they could ditch her for. It was fun. It was like having the brother he never did and a sister who actually liked him.

Then one day when Jules was packing up the rig, after Ed and Sarge were corralled and driven off for questioning, he and the remainder of Team One drew their guns on an arrogant son of a bitch who would later be known to them as Sam. Things would change. Jules spent more time with Sam, for reasons boxing glove in the face obvious now, but at the time they weren't so apparent. Lew told him to let it go, that maybe she was just making him feel welcome. Well the less he thinks about that the better.

Jules got shot. He called it in to EMS, kept his voice calm when on the inside he was all dots and dashes. She was up there with Sam. It was Sam's stupid fault. They had a debriefing about it. Sam explained what happened, racked full of guilt that transferred into rage and obviously wanted to get back to the hospital. They all wanted to, but apparently because Sam was sleeping with her, he got priority.

Lew died. Stepped on a landmine in downtown Toronto. Sam does two tours in Afghanistan and lives to fuck up the team. Lew sits in an inner tube in the ocean sipping on homemade ginger beer and gets blown to literal pieces a week later. Everyone tried to comfort him. His parents, Lew's parents, which just made him feel worse. Sarge tried to placate him through vague mixed philosophies. Wordy told him to call at anytime if he needed anything. Ed tried to get him to talk with a nudging elbow. Sam just left, which was a comfort in its own right.

Jules came to his house. His parents were out getting groceries because he wasn't eating as much as his mother preferred. He didn't answer the door, but watched from the kitchen window as her ponytail bobbed away and disappeared into her Jeep. She probably saw him; she was a sniper before Sam took her place.

He opened the kitchen door a crack after she left, and saw what she'd abandoned on the side door stoop. A lavender shoebox and a note. In her cursive, that he still has trouble interpreting, she scrawled, 'I figured you didn't have any and could really use these. Call me if you want to talk. –J'. At least that's what he thinks it says. He wants to teach her binary, Morse code, something so that he'll know for sure.

The box was filled with photos of Lew and the team. Some with him. Some with her. Some with Sam, most without. Some were developed from film, some were Polaroids. Most were from the parties they'd frequented in the last years, but some he didn't even recognize. Lew with a slight afro. Jules without bangs. Wordy and Ed with, well hair. His favorite is the one of him, Lew and Jules sitting in a semi-circle around a table at a Christmas party. He's in the middle with his arms slung around both of them. Lew's date is in the background searching for him. Sam wouldn't arrive for another six months.

The faucet turns on and he waits for the hot water to kick in. And waits. And waits. Shouldn't a hospital be aware that hot water aids in the destruction of bacteria. Now he's definitely going to get pinkeye. He stuffs his hands under the stream of water, there's an immediate stinging from all the miniscule cuts in his skin from overworking his hands. They self immolate when he adds soap.

He remembers the last time he visited Jules in the hospital, after she got shot. It's easy to remember, it happened six months ago. How she sat in that bed and even when she could barely move, blushed whenever anyone from Team One came to visit. He sympathized, imagined how hard it must be for her to be the only female SRU officer and the only one on Team One to be shot. People were spreading word that it was quite a big coincidence and the rest of Team One practiced a fascist censorship and stomped out that word before it spread like wildfire.

His reflection stares at him. Big black bags hanging onto his lower eyelids. The outside of his nostrils beginning to grow crusty from breathing in the manufactured hospital air. The skin on his cheekbones loose and pallid like the flesh and scales on those lakeshore fish. He wonders how Jules will act now. Will he even be able to tell if she's blushing?

Why didn't a single one of them offer to walk her home? They all know where she lives; they know she's capable of taking care of herself. He's gotten accidental black eyes that prove it. But at a time like this, they should be cultivating camaraderie, not letting everyone go off and do whatever they want, which happens to include stupid girls with idiotic car names. He wants to ask Sam if Range Rover was worth it.

He stares at himself. He'll always remember statuesque Lew, confined to a single position for the remainder of his life. What time is it Mr. Wolf? Eyes interrogate eyes as he leans closer to the mirror. He'll remember the way that Lew called to him before ending his life. Pupils contract into pinholes of concentrated misery. Now he'll always remember the way Jules smiled at him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder before she left the bar.

Without forethought his arm raises in a fluid movement, like an electric shock undulates through the limb. He smashes his lined knuckles into the mirror, a hairline fracture begin to appear and he pummels his doppelganger again, and a third time. He doesn't stop until the mirror above the sink resembles a tortoise shell; looks like chocolate topping on ice cream after cracking it with a spoon. Dark lines swerve over the fist-sized area like rivers on a map. Two solid streams of air shoot out of his nostrils and his lungs fully empty.

"Spike?" Ed and Wordy stand side-by-side behind him in the compact room. There's not enough space for all three of them in here. He's done now, he can leave. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He nods, confidant in his answer.

Wordy points to the mirror, each fractured piece reflects the industrial light in the wrong way. "Did you— Spike your hand."

It's not as bad as they think. Just a few bigger scratches. He honestly just needs to slap a Band-Aid over the bloody knuckles and they'll be good as new.

"Spike," Ed's voice takes a serious and low tone as he steps closer. "Did you do this on purpose?"

What kind of question is that? Even Wordy is shaking his head. "Of course I did. It's not like the mirror attacked me."

* * *

><p>Spike was right. His hand wasn't as bad as they thought. He kept protesting while Ed forced his torn flesh underneath the coldwater in the bathroom sink. Water conducts the color of blood; it plays tricks on the mind because all this red liquid spills into the basin and all over the counter. He assumed Spike nicked a major artery.<p>

Shelley cut herself once. She picked up the family portrait from Sears earlier that day and was trying to fit it into the frame when the glass slid out of position and ripped the skin on her ring finger. There was blood all over the kitchen table. He overreacted because he remembers when Shelley would show up at his apartment, bruised, bleeding, shaking and there wasn't a damn thing he could do until she wanted something to be done. Was he supposed to tell her she was stupid? She had someone to do that already.

His mind flashes to Jules. How Jules must feel, what Jules must've gone through and he knows the horrors. He knows because of Shelley. It makes his stomach hard, the acidity raised by a single beer. It makes his lips tremble because of the pain; he's witnessed it enough to experience it vicariously. It makes him feel disenchanted and he grasps back onto his greed. He has to stop thinking of Jules because if he breaks down now, he won't be able to be there for her later.

They've reclaimed their original seats in the waiting room. The triage nurse along with a security guard eyes them suspiciously from behind the great wall of glass. Ed told the nurse what Spike did in exchange for a few Band-Aids. However, he administered them, reliving the countless times he's stuck a Dora Band-Aid on Lilly's knee. He knows his friend, if Ed placed the bandages on Spike's dominant hand, he would have slapped them into place. Partly as a reprimand and partly to bring Spike down to Earth.

At least using the mirror as a punching bag has ceased Spike's foot tapping routine. Instead he slouches to the side in his seat like he's watching TV at home. Ed paces before them, obviously unhappy about not being able to do more. If Spike hadn't injured himself, Ed probably would have gone off on the triage nurse again just for relief. They all deal with bad news in different ways. After Lew died he drove home and clutched Shelley and his girls close, breathing in their scent until the girls started to feel awkward and wriggle away.

The thick plaster wall is cool against the back of his head. Above him is a cased bulletin board that the hospital decorated in honor of October's medical observances, 'know your months, know your health'. Half of the corkboard speaks out against breast cancer, gives stats and pictures. The other half is dedicated to domestic abuse awareness. It looms over him. He can't escape it.

"I don't understand what's taking so long." Ed plants a hand on his chin, while the other massages his elbow. He's been walking a straight line within their area of seats for the past fifteen minutes, black scuffs marring the floor.

"Ed, we're not going to get to see her tonight," He states, his words blunt as he stares at the rectangles tiles in the ceiling. A few are out of place by inches, a few are missing, a few have coffee colored water stains.

"Yeah?" Ed glances up from watching his feet. It's like he's practicing for a DUI roadside test. "What makes you say that?"

"After what happened, do you really think that she wants all four of us in the room with her?" He remembers how Shelley shrank away from him for weeks afterwards, months even. He'd come over to visit her at the hospital, or at her mom's house and she should be a husk. Empty of emotion, empty of personality, the spirit literally beaten out of her. She wasn't the same woman for a long time.

"We're her friends, Wordy."

"We're men, Ed." His head rolls against the wall so he can look his best friend in the eye. "It doesn't matter how we feel about her, right now we need to respect her priv—would you sit down already, you're making me dizzy."

"Oh, I'm making you dizzy?" Ed questions while sill pacing his preset route.

"Yeah, I'm with Wordy." Spike speaks for the first time since exiting the bathroom. He's still slumping in the chair, arm supporting his head. "You're blocking the view."

"The view?" Ed turns his head so that he can see what exactly he's standing in the way of. The muscles in his neck are ridged and stand out with the action. He wears a smirk and a skeptical expression when he glances back at Spike. "You want to see the doors?"

"Don't make fun." Spike's voice is level, calm and indifferent. Something happened in that bathroom and it broke him. They all lost Lew, but Spike lost his best friend. Now with Jules, it feels too soon. It will always be too soon.

"Spike, who is going to come through that door that could—"

"Maybe I just like looking at the people? Maybe my pattern set brain likes trying to figure out if more males than females come in. Maybe I look at them and try to imagine if Jules is worse off than they are. Maybe—Hey is that Sam?"

He and Ed turn to view their surrogate teammate rush through the double doors and twist his neck at awkward angles until he spots the triage nurse. He's wearing a white dress shirt, a suit jacket and fancy pants which suggests that the text caught Sam in the middle of a date. This is by no means the end to a perfect evening.

Ed's feet glue themselves right over two of the lines that make an exact grid on the floor. He crosses his hands over his chest, watching Sam's frantic movements as their teammate tries to explain himself to the triage nurse. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Wordy forces himself to stand. Tired legs ache at the movement, but accept the weight of his body. He stretches his arms above his head waiting for the crack in his bum shoulder. "I texted him while Sarge drove us here."

His best friend sighs and places a thumb and fingertip at the bridge of his nose. The action means annoyance not pain. "Why would you do that?"

"Because even though Sam has a different way of dealing with things, he's still part of this team." That's not true at all. He called Sam because he knows about his aborted relationship with Jules. He's seen the cold attitude they hold towards each other now. But he remembers the way Sam acted when Donna replaced Jules. Sam is him, just ten years ago and with a few more hurdles in the way. He called Sam because someone who's experienced it from this side needs to explain what happened.

The triage nurse shakes her head and points to their diminishing team. For the first time Sam notices them, but the distress doesn't drain from his face. He adopts a fast gait across the ER, Wordy and Ed watch almost entertained, like he's running a drill. Spike still watches the door.

When he's close enough, Ed begins in a warning tone, "Sam—"

"Where is she?" His hand flies to the back of his neck and he rubs at his muscles. Pained blue eyes flicker between him and Ed as words spill out of his mouth. "What happened? How bad is it? Why aren't you guys in there?"

Ed attempts again to calm Sam down before he breaks into Romeo inspired hysterics in the waiting room. "Just take a few deep breaths and—"

"No, how did this happen? How did—"

"Maybe if you were with us you'd know?" Spike yells from the chair. His injured hand lying against the side of his face as he retains his reclined pose.

During Sam's heated rebuttal and the slow movement of the security guard from behind the glass wall, Wordy nods to Ed. It's a gesture for him to go calm down Spike, while he talks to Sam. It's part of their job, talking down the new guys who get overemotional in public places. Most of the time it's not granted, this may be one of the rare exceptions when it's okay to punch a mirror or scream at your teammate.

"Come with me, we need to talk." He contemplates placing a hand on Sam's shoulder to guide him, but he might not be in the mood to be chummy.

Lew was never like this. Overemotional, hormonal, however it's described. The man was just happy. Simply happy. He was content with what he had; he worked on the weekends with an inner city program to help underprivileged kids play basketball. He was one of those stories you read about on the news that could've gone south, but didn't. And then did.

He and Lew spent a lot of time by the basketball hoop in the parking lot. Sarge didn't like that they had, not so legally, installed it. After all an SRU building probably shouldn't have a basketball hoop sticking of the side of it like a cancerous mole. Lew just chuckled and asked if Sarge was mad because he was bad at basketball. Their boss shook his head and they got to keep the orange rim drilled into the bricks. Lew always beat him, usually doubling his points, but it was nice to have someone not go easy on him for being a family man.

Lew exploded. It's a memory that haunts all of their dreams he's sure of it. It's a memory that's made them all go for PTSD therapy. A memory that makes them sit on a monumental leather couch and reluctantly refuse to talk about their family life, their personal life, their work life, what they watched on TV the night before, what they ate for breakfast that morning, or if they've ever wanted to be a florist. It's a memory that's made them all mute.

They all stood safely behind the barricade of cars and rigs, watching their friend get torn piece from piece, bones from bowels, heart from hand like they were spectators at the Kentucky Derby. He didn't cry until later, too shocked, maybe too desensitized. Spike broke down on the spot. He thinks he would too if Ed were detonated before his eyes. Sam left and sat in a rig, waiting to drive whoever wanted a ride back to headquarters. Ed, stood solitary, watched the smoke clear while his eyes grew cloudy. Sarge did his best to comfort all of them, when they were all inconsolable.

Jules. Jules hid her tears. She does things like that. Anything she assumes will be translated as a sign of weakness immediately gets hidden or denied. Her hands came up to her face, teepeed at her nose and worked double time to block her view of the debris and innards. But something cracked in her that day, allowed her to breakdown within full view of the team and she latched onto him. To this day he doesn't know why. Maybe because he's Wordy, he has Shelley and his three girls and he's a comforting guy. Maybe because he was closest. He'll probably never know why, but he's glad she chose him.

They settle into a corner of the room. It's behind a small alcove in the wall that allows for a certain level of silence and privacy. He directs Sam into the corner, so there are just his words to concentrate on. His hand comes to his lips and he considers how he's going to tell Sam. How he would have wanted to have been told about Shelley.

"Wordy what the hell is—"

"Sam, just listen to me okay?" He raises a hand to hush his teammate and sighs loudly. Ed would just tell him and get it over with. Like pulling off a Band-aid. Spike would probably just scream it at him and then go back to watching the doors.

"I'm going to tell you what we know." He pauses, he wants to tell Sam not to overreact, but he has every right to. When he found out about Shelley, he punched a hole in a wall, which is just a step up from a mirror. "Just remember that Jules is going to need you, and you being furious isn't going to help her."

Sam quiets verbally and physically. His body stops swaying in the pre-rage movement that it tends to acquire before he storms off and they don't see him for an hour, or day, or week. "What happened?"

"Someone beat her up, Sam." He can't make eye contact because his vision is going blurry through congregating tears. He's taken punches before, in grade school scuffles, in high school fights, on police patrols. He knows how one well placed fist to the jaw inflicts a world of agony. His eyes focus on the shadows in the corner of the wall and he tries not to think about Shelley at her worst. About how bad Jules could be. "Sam someone—"

"No." Sam shakes his head and backs up into the corner because there's no place else for him to go. He's already made the jump to the logical conclusion in his head, and his voice is at half the momentum it was in the waiting room as the first tear sneaks down his cheek. "No, she—" his voice cuts out and he gasps in a breath.

He has to say it. Words he doesn't want to speak and words that Sam doesn't want to hear, but he needs to say it just so that there's no confusion. Just so that it's concrete to both of them.

"Sam, someone raped Jules."

* * *

><p>Knuckles rumble against sticky glass to garner attention from the triage nurse. She gives a little jump when she notices him almost pressed flat against division like a child at a zoo exhibit. Her eyes stop mid-roll, as if the action is programmed, but she's attempting to grow out of it, and she gives him an index finger to tell him to wait one moment. The pen twists slowly between her fingertips while she finishes writing notes out on a chart. He checks over his shoulder on Eddy and Wordy, but they've disappeared, hopefully into the bathroom to find Spike.<p>

"Hey Cole." The triage nurse in all of her exuding politeness screams across the busy ER like she's calling out to her child in a grocery store. A man in blue scrubs who has his body contorted over a rolling cart while he too fills out a chart, raises his blond head. "Got a visitor for your patient."

She slams her open palm under the desk, activating a button which in turn activates the door; it's designed the same style as bank alarm systems. The glass door hisses open like an homage to a seventies science fiction movie. She gesticulates with her head that he should step through it and met with the nurse on the other side. Her hand buries into the back of her dark curls and she doesn't glance up from the clipboard again.

He crosses the threshold with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation. The actual functioning ER carries a pungent smell of alcohol-based sanitizers and over five dozen people that collide against each other like platelets in a blood stream. The male nurse is already approaching him, his large mouth pulled into a wide grin. He has the exact physique of a basketball player, tall, lean and a humongous hand hanging in the air for Greg to shake. "I'm the Nurse Manager Cole. You might want to excuse Lauren; it's been a long shift."

"I'm Sergeant Greg Parker, I—"

Cole points a long finger and is quick in his interruption. "You're here to see Miss Callaghan?"

It's weird to hear her called that. It's disconcerting. She's Jules. Julianna at formal functions, but she's always been Jules since the first day she arrived at the SRU and corrected him the first time he called her Julianna. Everyone else had a nickname, why not her. But Miss Callaghan, it's serious, it's more than formal, it's borderline dangerous. "Yes, I'm a friend."

"Please don't take this the wrong way Sergeant Parker." The grin fades from the nurse's face and his expressive eyebrows fall into slants. "But after what's happened, I think it's best that only family sees her."

It's an understandable insinuation, the buried meaning being that he's a man and a man put her in that hospital bed. It's just that, Jules doesn't have any women in her life. She never mentions her mom, from the very brief conversations they've held; she's either dead or left when Jules was very young. He supposes the lack of female friends is partly the team's fault. Jules goes out drinking in bars with them, or out on the shooting range with them, or to barbeques with them. He honestly doesn't even know if she likes shopping or cooking or other traditional woman things. He's never bothered asking.

"I'm her emergency contact." It's true. He is. Six months ago when she was shot, he found out. It seems a bit redundant because if Jules was likely to get hurt, it would be on the job. But now he's in the ER and it doesn't seem that stupid. He called her father when she was shot. Whether it was out of duty because she got hurt on his watch, or because he too is an estranged father, and would still want to know if his son was hurt, he's unsure. Her father grunted into the phone, and hung up.

The nurse shifts on what must be weary legs and rubs at the stubble growing on his chin. "Sergeant, so you're a cop, right?"

"I'm an SRU officer, so is Jule—Julianna."

"So you know the proper psychology when dealing with a rape victim."

He doesn't know what word bothers him more. He knows Jules, and she will not like being called a victim, not by the police reports, not by the prosecution, especially no by anyone who knows her. He knows that she fought back with tooth and nail until it was physically impossible, and that's what makes his chest feel tight. "Yeah." His voice is a decibel above a whisper. "Yeah I do."

Cole sighs and runs a hand through his short blond hair. "Sergeant Parker, I'm going to let you see her. It's against basic protocol, but she doesn't have anyone else. She's not talking, she's in shock and she's refusing pain medication. I'm thinking you're our best chance of helping her right now."

When Jules got shot, it was obvious she was uncomfortable in the hospital; she became physically uncomfortable when he or anyone from Team One visited her. At first he thought it was the bullet wound, ribs and muscles ripped apart. Even lying perfectly straight must've been excruciating. But as she healed, she'd duck her head; let her hair mask her face, anything to seem elsewhere. The shock of the assault, jumbled with the intense need to leave the building is probably causing her to refuse the drugs. "How bad is she?"

Cole swallows and nods his head. His eyes lose their shine and his lips fall slack. "She's one of the worse I've seen."

He shares in the nervous nod. His hands tremble. They walk past a few rooms, some with the doors open, some closed. Each step feels like he's wearing steel toed shoes. Each step raises his heartbeat until it's a bass drum in his ear and he can't hear the din of the ER around him. His mouth starts to salivate more and he swallows through the thick tickle at the back of his throat.

In the middle of a wall there's a single wooden door, blinds drawn but the industrial light filters through them. There's nothing around this door, no people, no chairs, no pieces of machinery, and no medical supplies. He knows it's Jules' room.

Cole wraps his fingers around the metal door handle, but pauses and releases it at the last moment. His expressive eyebrows fall into place and he crosses his arms. "Don't show too much emotion. If you're too happy, it seems out of place. If you're angry or sad, she's going to start to blame herself."

"Just be myself."

"Just be yourself." Cole places a comforting hand on his shoulder for a split second and offers a smile that should be reassuring but the situation at hand is a little more pressing. The nurse steps back from the door, convinced that Greg knows what he's doing and merges in with the rest of the ER traffic.

The metal door handle is warm under his fingertips when Greg takes his moment to pause. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, sitting with concrete shoes in a sea of saliva that won't cease production. He thinks he can feel each individual tooth, even the ones with the crowns. Toes wiggle in his weighty shoes. His shin muscle twitches and he imagines Jules on the other side of that door, what condition she's in mentally, physically, emotionally. What she looks like now, what he remembers her looking like in the warm light of the bar and the door screeches as he pushes it open.

"Hey Jules."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Vomiting x 3. Because apparently I only write about vomiting. Again feel free to wager on who tosses their Fosters. <em>


	4. HOs & HORs

_A/N: Hey Guys. Sorry this chapter took so long to get up. I'm getting to the part in my school where all the Profs are like have a billion assignments and a random midterm where there's a month left of class. Plus job. Plus let's face it, Jules needs to be written properly or not at all. I wasn't just going to rush through her part (I'm not lying Sam's part has been finished since before Halloween). Also the length of the story made me cut the 3rd puke. Tragic.  
>That being said, thank you all for the lovely reviews and favorites and what not. I'm glad you're enjoying the story enough to miss it. Hopefully the next chapter comes quicker. I can't wait to get onto the body of this story because I have hings planned for everyone that no one has ever even fathomed before. <em>

__Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 4

H-Os & H-O-Rs

He always arrives fashionably late to these things. He was the last one to join the team, the rookie. He was the last one at the hospital when Jules was shot, even though she meant the most to him. He was the last one at Lew's funeral because he was fucking Lexus in the backseat of her Camry. He was the last one at the hospital when Jules was— He's the last in the bathroom after Spike went all heavy metal and smashed in the mirror, apparently with an appendage because the counter is a Pollock painting with dollops of blood. Always and forever the rookie.

The generic buzz of his phone's vibration echoes in the petite, empty bathroom. The impact in the mirror reflects back eighteen or nineteen puffy, dangerously bloodshot eyes. He's been crying since Wordy told him. Crying because it happened. Crying because he did absolutely nothing to stop it. Crying because it happened to Jules. Crying because if it happened to Jules, it had to be bad because she fought. He knows she fought. Crying because it happens at all. Crying because there's nothing he can do. He can't go out and hit the guy. Beat the guy. Kill the guy. Even though his fists are pulsating with action, fingers twitching. That would be wrong, against the law. He's a cop. He upholds the law.

The contents of his stomach churn hard, he's sure the seafood and pasta evolve into a butter-like substance. It blows his mind, like the bullets he's placed in subjects from kilometers away, that he's not legally allowed to do anything to the guy who—being a cop seems overly useless. While Jules endured the trauma, the anguish, four cops sat drinking themselves into a stupor not six blocks away. Six blocks away.

Four cops that if any of them took the time to notice how much she's hurting on the inside and offered to walk or drive her home, none of them would be in this hospital now. He realizes he's in no position to debase because he chose Lexus over Jules. If he knew it would be a definitive choice, he would have ignored Lexus at the gym. He would have cut his friend out of his life and not even gone out that day. He would have blown up the gym.

It's been two months and he still yearns for her. He goes home to his apartment, which she's never even seen, and he wonders why the fuck he bothers because she's not there. The way the team is disintegrating, he should've been more open to switching to Team Two, or Three, or Fifty. It didn't matter which. But then the rest of Team One would know their business. Jules' business. His business. Teammates would taint something so precious, blaming their love, their relationship for the split of the team.

During his first real day at the SRU, after the night of meeting everyone at the retirement party. The night he spent two hours trying to guess Jules first name and never succeeded. The guys approached him, warning him not to fool around with her. Lew said he needed to cool it with Jules before she took him out. Spike added that it wasn't going to be to a restaurant. Sarge told him this was a place of professionalism, they deal with lives and hot calls and his focus should strictly be on the victims and subjects. Wordy ironically didn't say a thing, just shook his head. Ed told him point blank to keep his dick in his pants.

He admits that when he first saw Jules through the maelstrom of sniper shots, and broken Croatian phrases she was a contest. Sure, Toronto was full of women, and sure it would probably be pretty easy to get them between his sheets or in his cools pants just by the relational mention of 'army' or 'cop' and 'sniper'. But sinking Jules, that would be the real challenge; he realized that after he uttered his first words to her and he was answered by the barrels of five different guns, one being her own.

The process changed, over the next few weeks he adapted in enemy territory. Instead of coming on strong, laying down the suave, blond boy, sly-smirked attitude, he tried to come off as just a potential friend. Friends, as he learned from college blackout raves and keggers, frequently came with many benefits. Coffees in the back of her roomy jeep. How he recounted stories of his past and didn't hyperbolize how treacherous the General actually was. How she nodded with a stern-face before reaching forward to the front seat for her cell phone. How he stealthily checked out her ass.

The sequences of the friendship evolved into a rivalry and he felt like he was back in the army with his buddies. It was refreshing that she didn't go easy on him because he was the rookie. It was refreshing that she didn't want him to go easy on her because she was female. They teamed up often and found that they fit together with puzzle piece perfection. In areas he lacked she made up for and in areas she lacked—she didn't lack. She seemed perfect.

Then he started getting overprotective. Saw her swan dive off the side of the Eaton's Center and his innards all shifted up a foot inside of him like he forgot about the decompression chamber after deep sea diving. In the green, energy saving, industrial lighting of her 'Jules' locker room he touched her for the first time. Air dense with the post-shower, mock rainforest atmosphere. Heavy steam clasped to the mirror, the tiles slippery with condensation. His hand grazed over her road kill back. She shivered, clandestine skin cultivated goose bumps as ropes of soggy hair hung and cried shower remnants. She felt it too and he knew that his conquest was a success. Except—except, he didn't care anymore.

Because somewhere between the first time he saw her holding a sniper rifle and automatically pictured her in a bikini and stilettos doing playboy poses with it and the tiny gasp she gave when his hand grazed her skin, he fell in love and didn't know. He didn't know because he'd never been in love before. He didn't know it could sneak, lie undercover for months and then just pop. After that moment she was perfect. Her cream, no sugar was disgusting, but she was perfect. She had a curling iron he still doesn't know what the fuck she uses for because her hair is always straight, but she was perfect.

And one time she bitched at him about just wanting to go home, because she'd fucked up. Because she wasn't perfect. He wouldn't let her go, stalked her down the street as onlookers shook their heads at him. Give it up, Buddy. He sneered an expressional flip-off at them in the streetlights. She didn't need to walk around the city, at night, alone. If anything happened to her, it would be on him. If anything ever happened to her, it would be on him. He told her that he wouldn't talk, that she didn't need to talk. That they could sit in an awkward, manufactured silence and for fuck's sake would she just let him drive her home? She just kept refusing and marching away. He didn't pity her actions. He just wanted to protect her, because someone needed to.

He grabbed her and kissed her. It was a little unorthodox. In the middle of a busy street. The rest of the team less than half a block away. He'll remember that kiss until the day he dies. The feeling was indescribable. Relief, like expelling the air in his lungs after drowning for far too long. Epiphanic, like every single thing he did up to that point in his life didn't mean a fucking thing. Cool lips hesitated a few seconds before cautiously parting, like a toe dipping into an icy lake. His hand traced the soft skin from her jaw to her cheekbone and tangled into her hair. He loves her hair. Soft when it curls around his fingers, sexy when it falls over her shoulders, consoling when he buries his nose in it.

Their first time was in her semi-demolished house. She led him by the hand up creaky funhouse stairs and told him too late that he might smash his head off a dip in the ceiling. The plunge came just after the landing and it almost took him out; he stumbled back a few steps, covered his forehead with a hand, and groaned a few choice curse words. She giggled at him. Honest to God giggled, and he felt the nervousness boiling in his stomach flush over his body in a new wave of adoration. Her fingertips brushed against his hairline where the nerve endings singed and danced. Under gentle guidance he made it under the depression and she placed those lips on the indent in his head.

Eventually they arrived at her bedroom. She leaned across her bed, a queen-size, decorated with a flowered bedspread and patchwork quilt folded in thirds at the foot, and reached into a drawer on her bedside table. She tossed a condom to him as he stood in the threshold; it hit his chest and fell to the hardwood floor. Like an asshole, the effects of his pre-Toronto days still lingered in his bloodstream, which was concentrated well below his waist by that time; he glanced at the square wrapper, then at her and asked, "You're not on the pill?"

She had every right to kick him out, which is what he expected if she didn't shoot him first. He winced at his own comment and waited for the a-bomb to go off because he chucked rocks at it. But it didn't. Instead she merely shook her head. With a superior smile and in a seductive voice that shot the rest of his blood out of his brain, she answered, "Maybe one day you'll know, Braddock."

They had sex that night for the first time. It was like exploratory surgery. Figuring out where everything goes. Even though it should be fairly obvious, it isn't. Jules is eight inches shorter than he is; it made him being on top awkward to say the least. He always felt like he was crushing her. But then her being on top all the time isn't exactly fair and then sometimes they had to literally flip a coin.

He had to figure out what parts of her body she liked, what parts he did. He's a big fan of her neck, but she vetoed hickeys. Working on a team of snipers, well everyone would notice and then ask questions. He suggested her collarbone and she stressed no hickeys as he sucked on her skin like it was candy coated. He wanted to know who the fuck, other than him, would be seeing her collarbone. When she got shot, he understood. There were hickeys on her collarbone by then.

The lights in the bathroom start to irritate his eyes as the spider web of his own fucked up reflections stare back at him. None of them have the answer, they're all just waiting for him to do something so they can copy his move and claim it as their own. Classic monkey-see monkey-do syndrome except in this case it's all his neuroses waiting for him to take a single step so they can piss-in-his-Cheerios fuck up his life. His phone jitters in the close confines of his back pocket.

At first he didn't see their relationship lasting. They're both dangerously loyal people. To each other, which is a good aspect to have in a relationship, but they were loyal to the team. Sneaking around like double spies poked holes in their morality. They started fighting more. Not at work like the one day they exploded at each other and covered it up with being concerned over the hot call, but at her house. He was still living in a hotel at the time.

The one time he swore the end was near at approximately a month in. That their relationship was brain dead and being kept alive by machinery and a prayer. That people were gathered with candles and singing dirges. Then he had to shoot a sixteen-year-old kid in the head because that kid was going to shoot Ed. Sarge called Scorpio. He was Sierra One, Jules Sierra Two. He had the solution. He fired. The kid collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. Ed remained unscathed, but pissed, but grateful out of obligation.

He was in the SIU interview for over eight hours. It was almost as long as after the incident of friendly fire, which incidentally was brought up several times. Sarge protected him to the point where his boss grew round and red with rage. The lawyer told him not to answer any more questions after six hours. He was actually relieved to be Sierra One. More relieved Jules wasn't. He was glad this was on him and not her, because he would be worried to death about her.

Sarge told him to go home and sleep it off because they had another day tomorrow. Sam nodded but took a taxi to her place instead. Why sleep when kitchen cabinets needed to be retextured, or the couch needed to be reupholstered or whatever crazy shit she was up to this week. He honestly didn't know how she knew to do half of the stuff. He still doesn't. Her porch light was still on. The neighbors would complain. He opened the ornate door, the one he imagined her hands sanding down every time he played with her fingers while they lied in repose on the couch, or in the early morning hours. He never found a single callous.

The thicker wooden door opened immediately, a burst of kinetic energy. She wore a gray t-shirt that stretched to her hips and shorts. The shadows over her collarbone and the way her skin reflected the warm porch light indicated that she was working out, which meant that she was worried. Too worried to work on the house. Her hair fanned out behind her head and messy bangs fell into her eyes.

"Can I—"

"Yeah." She shoved the door open and stepped to the side, allowed him entrance to the house. It smelled like cinnamon and maple. Despite being constantly under construction, her house always exuded the most welcoming aromas.

He still expected to see the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen, but they tore it down last week. She promised him the wall wasn't load bearing. After he stared at the floor plan for a good half an hour and pretended he knew what the hell he was looking at, he agreed and they took sledgehammers to the feeble drywall. He'd never seen her laugh so much; it was disturbing in a delightful kind of way.

"You shouldn't open your door so quickly. You never know who could be—"

When he turned to face her, she linked her arms around him, her face somehow rested on his chest. Her grip was tight, almost needy, and definitely uncharacteristic of the Jules he knew. The one who got pissed at him when he brushed against her at work, or let his arms fall on her side of the bed when he was in a deep sleep. "I was so worried about you."

Her breathe was hot through his shirt. His arms bent awkwardly at his side because the embrace caught him completely off guard. "I'm fine."

"I'm sorry." She released him and he felt cold in her absence. "Did you still want to talk?"

Then he remembered for the first time since he shot a sixteen-year-old boy in the forehead that he and Jules were supposed to have a stern talk about their future that night. Generally, he figured it would go a little like: both of them admitting that having someone to talk to, someone who understands the job, is great. The sex is amazing, but it just wasn't working. Too much fighting weaved its way into the great aspects of their relationship. He loved her, but he was ready to let her go because he knew she didn't feel the same way. Now, he wasn't so sure.

He gathered her back to him, one of his arms wrapped around her thin shoulders. The other around the small of her back. She has a tattoo there, he doesn't have any tattoos. He'd only snuck the odd, blue moon glimpses of it. Sometimes in the morning sun it peaked out from between the floral patterned sheets, sometimes it flashed by in the shower mist. Every time he reached out to touch it, Jules knew, with her back turned she knew, even in her sleep she knew. "It was just SIU, it wasn't that bad."

She shook her head, forehead pressed into his chest, her bun vibrated with the movement. "I was worried about you. To do that and then go through that."

His cheek squished against the top of her head. He didn't tell her how he was preoccupied with being thankful he was the one who pulled the trigger. He was Sierra One. He was the one who had his weapon reclaimed. He was the one who had to strip down to his boxers in front of the SIU guys and stood there in uncomfortable silence until someone brought him his gym bag. He's never asked Jules if she's shot and killed someone. Never really cared enough to. He figured she had because it's in the job title and she was a Sierra before he got here. But when he thinks about all the shit she'd have to go through afterwards, he hopes she never has.

"I'm fine."

"Did they feed you?" He lost his grasp on her again as she padded barefoot over scuffed wooden floors. "I could make you—"

"Jules," He laughed her name, because the caring attitude enacted itself out in frantic behavior. "I'm fine. Really."

"Okay." She nodded, but he knew she still didn't believe the answer. She stood in the small ghost of a hallway between the now extended living room and kitchen.

The living room was a disaster still under construction. White, paint splattered sheets lied crumpled near the baseboards of the still intact walls. She wanted to tear the back wall down, and then rebuild it, all because of faulty plumbing. He honestly thought she just wanted to smash the shit out of something with sledgehammers again. To see the pure happiness on her face, he would end up agreeing. It was a two week project that they finished three days before she got shot. Buckets of primer, some opened, some hoping to be, crowded the corners of the empty room. The only thing that remained intact was the TV and her old ratty couch.

"Can't we just watch some Letterman or something?"

"Yeah." Again her answer was hesitant and she glanced down at her attire. Bangs swayed and her lower lip actually twitched as she enlightened, "I'm kind of gross from working out though."

"Jules." He reached forward and took her hand, one of the hands that spent so many hours sanding down the gorgeous front door, and led her into the living room. "I was in the same room for eight hours. SIU didn't exactly offer me a shower."

At first it was uncomfortable. A couch cushion to each of them. Hands situated in their laps. The kind of stature he had when he picked up his prom date, Katy Beamer and her dad gave him the stink eye. He wasn't this rigid with SIU. But he remained in the darkened silence of her front room as the title from the Late Show illuminated the empty space. He tried not to think about how their relationship possibly imploded before his eyes.

Then she angled against him. Initially it was just her shoulder that brushed against his, then touched his, then pressed on his as she leaned her head in the crook between his shoulder and his neck. His hand fell to her knee, smooth skin, and then slid tentatively up her thigh, overworked muscles tight underneath his fingertips. Her lips barely touched against the side of his neck, swerved in a delicate pattern until her lips were on his unshaven cheek.

His response was slow, he shifted to let his arm encircle her waist, and his hand stroked her cheek before they kissed. The kiss remained tender momentarily, like the weak flicker of a dying flame. Then something in them snapped simultaneously, at first he thought this would be the last hurrah before the end of the relationship, but he understood the next morning it was when they both realized the love was requited.

He opened his mouth, deepened the kiss and his tongue licked at her lower lip. She moaned against him, lips parted. The kiss was delicious, wet, like the first bite of a peach. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he lifted her to straddle his lap. She had to be on top this time. He would definitely crush her into the couch.

His mouth found her neck and tired not to linger. No hickeys. It was an absurd rule. But her skin tasted so salty, it was addicting. To his surprise she didn't remind him, in that eye rolling tone, about their rule. Instead she sighed into his ear; a do-it-yourself hand dragged upwards through his hair and only encouraged his plundering mouth.

Fingers found the hem of her top and lifted it over her head, while one hand pressed into the small of her back, the tattoo, and stabilized her. Her skin glistened as the opening monologue flickered against her back, the dip between her breasts grew an enticing shade as she flushed. His hands drifted lower, over the tattoo and top of her shorts to grip her ass. She pulled off his shirt, black and heavy from the events of the day.

When she arched in the pliable material of her bra tickled his chest. Her hand snaked around his neck again, curved into his hair as she kissed him hard. He complied, and his hands kneaded. She bucked against his hips and he broke the kiss, dipping his head, tongue and teeth against her bare collarbone. Her hands fell flaccid from his neck and adept fingers picked at the zipper to his pants.

As his mouth traced the first swell of one breast, and her hands successfully liberated his pants, a thought struck him. "Wait." He muttered against her skin as he lapped up one last taste of saltiness. "What about a condom?"

He was honestly so proud of himself at that moment, not only for remembering the prophylactic, but because he had sufficient self-control to restrain himself long enough to go get one. In a few seconds he would be rendered immobile, so it was now or never.

Jules, however, just shook her head at him and kept her chest pressed square against his. The pocket of time he had to travel in was quickly diminishing. "We don't need one."

"We always need one." And they did. There were times when he jumped out of the shower, ran into the bedroom, rifled through the drawers and came back with a strain of them just in case. He kept telling her to keep some in the medicine cabinet. No one would ever know. Part of him thinks Jules just liked to see him panic.

She kissed him again. Not hard, not tender. Just a normal, loving, trusting kiss. Her hands were on his shoulders, fingers drummed against his skin. "We only need one if you want to use one."

Then he understood. There was enough communication between them, enough feelings, and she felt comfortable enough with him now that condoms were no longer necessary. Of course he wasn't going to throw her off of him, run all the way upstairs, hit his head in the dip, grab a chain and run down. The love and trust they couldn't speak of could be shown in different ways.

The sex was over before the Late Show was over. But it was amazing, exhausting, exhilarating, everything sex should always be. Everything he kept reminding himself of when he was with Lexus. Two months later Jules got shot and he reverted back to condoms. He didn't mind, Jules had to learn to walk, bend, stand, sit, and breathe on her own again. He could make the sacrifice of having to use condoms.

He never pressured, waited until she wanted to be intimate. On that fateful night they were approaching month three of her recovery. A week prior she'd been cleared for 'strenuous activities'. He had everything under control until he saw it. The smudge, the mark, the scar. The bullet hole. He lost it. Everything, his temper, his feelings, his patience, his arousal. In the narcissistic, fucked up world he lives in, she ended up having to comfort him that night. A soft hand dragged through his hair as his ear rested against her chest, listened to the heavy, laconic, fatigued sigh of her heart. Eyes wrenched closed because that goddamn scar brandishes the ways he failed her. The ways he almost killed her.

Now, he stands alone in the whitewashed tile bathroom Spike's handiwork already decimated with the surge of emotions none of them know how to handle. The rage that blooms and spreads like the red tide in their bodies and suffocates their ability to feel. The rage, the guilt, the inability to believe what's happened to Jules knowing that just two months ago she was his. She more than his sexy sniper chick, she was his everything, and moreover, she loved him. She loved him and somehow he let that sift through his hands like her love was as plentiful as sand at a beach.

In his back pocket his cell phone vibrates. His fingertips drill into the faux marble countertop, still painted with streaks of Spike's blood. He should have been at the bar; he would have walked her home. The guys' thoughts would have been in the gutter and Sarge would've given him a wary expression, but what the fuck did they know? Jules would've argued with him and he would've trailed her anyway. Just like he did when they left the hotel. Streetlights haloing her hair. Puffs of air floating rhythmically from where her head tucks inside her coat collar.

He assumed the team would take care of her. Why the fuck would they take care of her when he didn't have the momentum too? They are all dealing with the black hole that a single bonding landmine created and they forgot to stay aware. A basic rule of war, just because one buddy's gone doesn't mean another can't quickly follow. Why, out of everyone, did it have to be her?

He thinks about her. Really thinks about her. Her smiling knowingly at him from across the packed briefing room. Waking him up with a kiss on the cheek and then a less gentle backhanded slap. Watching sci-fi movies with her and the faces she pulls because she hates the genre. A thirty second montage of all the most important moments he's had with her run through his mind as his breathing grows more rapid because it's starting to sink in. What this guy did. What this guy stole. How Jules is never going to be the same person he knew the last time he saw her a week and a half ago.

Part of the reason he fucked Lexus, was for closure. Proof to Jules, he was over their relationship, although she was the one who called the time of death. He always knew he'd overreact when she found a new guy, but he never in a million years expected this. He glances down at his hands, brittle nails cracked and bleeding now with the pressure of the night. Pictures where his hands have been on her body. Tracing over the sun faded ink lines of her tattoo, twirling the ring she sometimes wears that's too big for her middle finger, changing the twin gauze pads blocking the hole in her chest.

This man's hands have been there. Ravaged her body. Putrefied her soul. Tarnished their memories. His chest ignites and into the stained sink basin he vomits remnants of dinner. Half-bowties and crispy shrimp legs decorate the porcelain in an acidic reduction. He coughs, the acrid taste clinging to his tonsils like a sickness, making it impossible to inhale a deep breath. The water turns on in an attempt to wash his past away, the dinner didn't happen, the sex didn't happen, this night didn't happen. Instead the metal plug isn't elevated enough to allow passage to the half masticated food and it clogs.

He didn't go to the bar tonight, for the same reason he didn't go to the bar for the last week and a half. Because he was still furious at her for the way she ended it, without warning after avoiding him for a week. After he spent four months taking care of her because no one else would. Because he wanted too. Because she means everything. If he just went, none of this would have happened. She wouldn't be in his arms, lips pecking the tip of his nose, but she wouldn't—

His phone seizes again. Stronger than before, an electric current shoots down his leg. He tears the device from his back pocket and tosses it on the counter. Watches as it skitters like a beetle across the broken glass and dried blood. Something stutters in the phone. For a second its electronic heart stops beating and it remains still. But within seconds a new call initiates and it's back to dancing over the surface, almost into the sink.

He picks up his phone between a forefinger and thumb, feels the weak sensation of the tremors and recalls how a little more than an hour ago he got four tragic words that would forever change his life. If he thinks hard enough maybe he can stay in limbo forever, the place where he didn't know why Jules was in the hospital. The fear made his stomach do gymnastics routines, but at least he didn't know it was this.

It's got to be the guys. Ed, Wordy, not Spike who's on the same rage wavelength as him, but sans the sanity. They're calling because he's all but locked himself in the bathroom like a teenager going through his first breakup. He's used to leaving, used to coping through absence. It makes the heart grow fonder and honestly not seeing any of them for the last week and a half has been doing wonders for his mentality, his stamina, his physique. But he's going to have to answer his phone eventually and hear Ed's gravelly voice ream him out because Jules is going to need him and he can't be there for her from this bathroom.

A thumb presses the green engage button and he brings the phone to his ear, ready to hear how Ed plans to talk him out of the bathroom without being completely degrading.

"Hello." His voice sounds like his face looks. Tired, distraught, emotionally confused and beaten. He wonders for the fiftieth time what Jules looks like and lets a hiccup of a gasp out into the phone. He told her once that she'd be the most beautiful thing he'd ever see until the day he died. How is he supposed to place value in that belief if there's nothing singularly 'Jules' left? Body or mind.

The other end of the phone connection jolts to life. It's not Ed. He recognizes the voice in the shrill exhale of air and he's never wished that Ed would phone him more. "Sam, I don't know what the hell you think that was? But leaving me at the restaurant with the bill? Tots uncool. Did you think that was funny? Because it tots wasn't. I had to scrounge through my purse for a credit card. The least you could've done was leave one of yours. If we're going to have a legit relationship then—"

"Shut the fuck up Lexus." He drags a hand over the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Obviously she didn't get that being left in the restaurant was a metonymy for him leaving their whatever-the-fuck they had together. God she infuriates him. Before she takes a breath and starts her dirty engine ramble again he speaks sternly. "Just shut the fuck up and listen for once. We are not in a relationship. We never were. We fucked a few times. That's it. We're done. Stop calling me."

On the end of his sentence as he hears her gaping maw inhale air for a rebuttal, he disconnects, deletes her number and turns the phone off. He understands he was harsh, understands if his mom was there she would've shaken her head at him all teary-eyed and said she'd raised a better boy than that. He also understands that the only woman he ever did and does love is lying in a bed on the same floor after experiencing things he wouldn't wish on Lexus, no matter how much the thought of her makes him want to add to Spike's decimation of the mirror.

His focus needs to be free, his time needs to be unoccupied so that he can be readily available to help Jules however she may need it. Half of him considers this proposal to be a tad of an overstatement. He doesn't need to devote every waking minute to her. He didn't even do that when they were dating. Near the beginning he didn't anyway. He stares at his likeness in the broken tortoiseshell, each piece reflecting him back in a different way. The wrong way. No. He needs to do this for Jules because he failed her. He failed her before by letting her get shot and he failed her tonight by not even being there.

He shoves away from the counter and towards the door. Towards the rest of the team as they wait the verdict from Sarge. He knows that he's not going to get to see her anytime soon. They won't let him. They'll say some bullshit about Jules' state-of-mind and how seeing him could trigger something. What they don't realize is they were friends before they had sex. They trusted each other, protected each other, and if it wasn't for the rest of the team, still might be that way. He pushes through the door. He failed her tonight because he left her with the team and thought that they would take care of her.

* * *

><p>One row is down. Doesn't blink or flicker with the distant, offshore hope that filaments are merely disconnected. The right side. The side farthest from the bed is off, in this room, gagged and all emptied for her. The light is stationary, but if she trains her eye on it long enough it sways with a Hawaiian lull. Hypnotic and slow. Deviant, trying to seduce her into a slumber. She's not sleeping here.<p>

The active light, Sierra One, looms above her bed. Twin cylindrical bulbs beating with the heat of the stars that swing danced in her vision an hour ago. Maybe more. Maybe less. Time in any hospital slows to a thigh-level wade through thick mud. The same pastel green walls as before. Green's tenacious. She's tenacious. Green's natural. Nothing is natural.

Brightness interrogates the only viable eye, the left. A dry wink into the overly contrasted green room. Inhospitable. Impossible to focus. Her right eye won't open at all, not a fraction, not a millimeter, not even in afterthoughts. No one has checked it yet, prodded at it with boney fingertips, leaving fingerprints on her malleable skin. They sent her for some kind of scan though. The machine, like the room, was dehydrated, interrogating and intense. They told her to lie still for twenty minutes. Like she was going to be doing anything that constituted as moving anytime soon.

She can't feel her nose. It doesn't really feel like she has a nose, so she hasn't tried to feel for it. Images of half-charred and decaying bodies parade through her mind. Day of the dead. The nose decomposes first. Cartilage doesn't hold up well in comparison to bone. Maybe there's a simple triangle, like she's a human Jack-o'-lantern. An elegiac effigy to where her nose once stood. Her mouth is the Grand Canyon. Lips form two craggy ledges. If they brush against each other sparks might jump forward and catch the bed sheets on fire.

A dull throb has rooted itself at the base of her skull. She remembers in flashes, in splices of film and DNA, hitting the drywall in her front room. Maybe more than once. Maybe she's still hitting it and she's in an aptly named 'happy place'. Immediately, she vetoes the idea because her 'happy place' is not a hospital. She remembers pieces of Santorini paint and white plaster drifting off her hair like nuclear winter snowflakes and onto a sheet she was forced to stand on. They gave her two pieces of gauze sandwiched together and told her to smother the wound on her skull.

Her throat is almost swollen shut. Vocal chords and windpipe compressing like bagpipes under the boot heel of aggravated neck muscles and flesh. Lungs smolder, plead for air, despite having the oxygen tubes nestled into the negativity of her nose. Fire ignited by broken ribs crawls up her throat, eating up the moisture and her words. Singes her skin.

The odd bruise or scratch adorns her left arm, it's generally unharmed. But her rib bones, being a few kicks away from dust, have put a damper on her movement. She can't lift her arm any higher than her shoulder. Her right arm is a perfect mess. They thought it fractured at more than one awkward angle. Now it hangs flaccid halfway down from the elbow, bone not yet breeching the skin, but the area swells and shins like the latex gloves everyone she comes into contact with wears, but blown full of air to entertain a child.

Bruises speckle her torso. Create a morbid mosaic of yellow and purple on her collarbone and the swells of her breasts. Some red starbursts stick out where the impact of fists and boots grew too hard, broke veins and capillaries at such an exceeding rate they were afraid to heal. Too nervous to be any color but blood.

While changing at geriatric speed into a robin's egg hospital gown, she noticed two large bruises in the shape of hands on her back. Clear enough to be finger-painted. They took measurements, with a right angled ruler. Took pictures while she hugged herself away from the camera. Her hips share the same marks. Darker. Malicious. Each individual finger is distinguishable. Thighs are even worse. Repeatedly battered in patterns. In layers. Muscles torn and overextended. Skin maneuvered and clawed at until color cried out through contusions.

Whenever she shifts, even so much as lifting her hips an inch from the bed, her insides hurt. She wants to scream from the sheer infliction of the pain, but she's stronger than that. Instead her left hand weakly bunches the sheets and she breathes staccato through the triangle in her face. Let's tears pool and relieve her barren eye. She was bleeding when they brought her in, she doesn't know if she is now or not, the pain is not worth checking.

The exam only made it worse. Two faceless, female nurses floating around wearing empty masks of empathy. Quizzing her on the personal aspects of her life. "Have you had sex n the last three days?" While doing overly personal, painful things to her body. Forcing her to over extend her jaw so they could swab her mouth. The cotton returned dyed red, like everything else she contacts.

Sentimental questions wove in between medical jargon and undistinguishable whispers. They asked if she had someone she could call, "A husband or a boyfriend." No.

They'd swab something else, the pressure of a jackhammer in that cotton tip. "A mom or dad or sibling?" No.

They placed the swabs into containers with biohazard signs. "A close friend or neighbor?" Yeah her neighbors who get pissed at the porch light staying on all night, but don't hear her screaming and begging and—No.

She doesn't even know those nurses names. They didn't even bother to introduce themselves to her.

She just wants to go home. People, the hospital staff, whoever else, aren't going to let her go home when they find out it happened there. That house is still her home. She fixed it up with her bare hands once, she can do it again. She has far better memories within those walls, than one bad one can ravage. She wants to be alone in the sanctity of her bathroom with the glowing white tile and the drifting scent of lily of the valley, ivory and olive green, watered and coddled.

The rubber stop on the door screeches across the floor. Her body seizes. Whenever someone encroaches, the door wails. Dislikes being touched. Teeth crack and powder under the strain of a bruised jaw as a contour of a man enters the room.

"Hey Jules." His voice cracks. Infinitesimal. If she wasn't so hyperaware she wouldn't hear it. If her ears weren't the only part of her body still effortlessly perfect, she wouldn't hear it. If she didn't spend the last seven years with his voice stitched into her ear canal she wouldn't hear it. But it's there. He's here, somehow made it past the sentries and into the belly of the beast.

Money on the roulette was placed on Sarge getting back here first. Always the parent, never the father.

"Sorry." A decibel. A whisper. A waft of humid summer air ruffling a curtain. Good eye cycles up. Bobs in the stagnant water connecting two lids. In the past, the future or the time between she has never required an apology.

He swallows, an envy nurturing action. "Sorry it took so long to get back here, Jules."

Not a word in response. No need. There's nothing she can say, wants to say, really needs to say. It's awkward. Being here. Having him here. Being here. It's painful. Being here. Having him here. She wants to be alone. She doesn't want to be here. She wants to go home. She'll never be alone again.

"It's, uh—" Unasked, by either of them, he takes a seat in the chair to the right of her bed. His fingers massage at the muscles in his neck like he's tenderizing meat. "It's all right if you don't want to talk, Jules. "

Eye darts away from him to twin knee peaks beneath the mint green, weakly knitted hospital blanket. The profiling begins. It probably began in the waiting room. Probably began when he found out. Is she a danger to others? To herself? Is there any history of vio— "I'll just. I'll uh, be here if you want to talk."

Silence. Tap. Tap. Tap. Leaky faucet from the sink headed with a minimalist's rectangle mirror. From the right angle she might catch a reflection of herself. Eye submerges into the blankets.

"Everyone's here, Jules." Tactic number ten, use the subject's name as often as possible. It's annoying, slightly patronizing. She feels like profiling him right back. Instead her crags remain stationary. No San Andreas Fault. "All the guys are in the waiting room."

Golden rule defaced. It's boldfaced lie. Sam's not out there, he's a million miles away doing whatever Sam does in times like these. She used to know, thinks she used to know. Shallow breaths reprise as Santorini violence crashes in her head. Head slamming into drywall. Index finger dabbing paint on a rounded nose tip. Body collapsing on the hardwood. Paint smearing ear, tugging lobe, lopsided smile. Thighs bent backwards, pulverized and devoured. Sideways kiss caught the corner of her mouth, cautious tongues embrace, paint roller drops; explodes Sky. A dissonant symphony, a dismembered body, a disbanded team.

Lew's not out there. At least not like when he was waiting for her after she came out of a drug induced coma from the surgery. From the bullet. From the pain. Her brain all fucked up on painkillers, addled into a different timeline with long sustained laughter and hallway drifting light. She wanted to dance. She remembered just wanting to dance. Six men. Six goddamn men on her team and with a twirl of her hand, the first thing she says is, "take me dancing." They were a team of seven back then. Back then she had six boys. Six men in her life and now there are five. Well four, because whatever the fuck Sam was up to lately they aren't on speaking terms. But the tall, gangly kid they handpicked as a team of five men, five years ago, would be absent from the waiting room. Six months ago he would still be in a hallway in a different hospital waiting for her to wake up. Two weeks ago he would still be in Ocho Rios. Now there are probably particles of him floating inactive in the atmosphere of the GTA.

Two weeks and still visions of his idiosyncrasies are fresh. Even through all the shit piling in her brain. Even through all the pain flaying at the inside of her body. His half-set eyes and pursed lips accompanied by a head tilt at an incredulous statement. The absence of mocking at her whole double 'x' chromosome thing. Just a soft spoken compliment, a grin, a head bob. The afro that he wore right out of Guns and Gangs and for two years after. Through the relentless ridicule and holiday gifts of picks. He was the only one who thrilled her with challenges. Repel racing down the side of the building, blindfolded dismantling of guns, actual sparring. He always offered to let her drive the rig. When they acted out scenes for Rookies where subjects and victims were needed he suggested her as the subject. She hated being psychoanalyzed, Lew knew, said it was good for her. But then everyone agreed she made a better victim. A solid victim. She's tired of being the goddamn victim.

Crippled wrist spasms involuntarily against the alveolate cavern in her chest. The expected reverberation, the ratatatat of the tin soldier's drum doesn't function. Instead a mewl of butterflies escapes her throat. The noise is raw, thrusts the skin on the inside of her throat, vocal chords grinding like a street organ. Pressure builds in her right arm, wrist to elbow, cuff to cuff, bicep tingling with talkative nerve endings. The tip of her tongue taps her bottom lip for the first time on reflex, mountain face and all. Copper, salt, sulfur and pennies. The Red Sea. A split straight down the middle almost leading to her chin. Jack-o'-lantern indeed.

"Jules." Sarge's body is a little forward in the chair, not too much to make her feel uncomfortable, not too quickly to startle her. A lifetime of reading people has probably made him keen on the undulations of her jaw muscles or the tears seeping from her good eye. "Your arm?"

No answer. No movement. No second reprisal of the mewl in A-minor. Stillness in the spot-lit hospital bed ensconcing her arm to her body like it was Lew. A final chance to say goodbye. Another pat in his afroed hair. Another repel down the SRU. Another horribly failed game of H-O-R-S-E. Once she got to H-O and H-O-R he always gave her easy shots and chuckled softly at her gestating rage. No Dutchie left behind. Her good cheek grows hot under a fat, acid filled tear. Its trek a perfect line over the drooping contours of her face. It kamikazes to the hospital blanket.

Sarge reaches beside her, pretty close actually. She doesn't notice. Or maybe she does and doesn't care. But she doesn't flinch. She's staring at the wall. Not noticing the mirror in the periphery. He's adjusted the reading light to over her lap and flicks on the switch without warning. Light accosts the area. Beats its way underneath both her eyelids, between each eyelash, into the crevices in her brain. She's sure her pupils dilate until they implode in on themselves. She lets out a displeased groan.

"Sorry." He directs the light further down her legs and her pulse lessens behind her eyes by a single jungle drum. He stares at her, lips gone. Curled into each other too much until they adapted away. Jaw clenched, nostrils gaping with each inhalation. He's pissed off, if he could throw something or flip something he'd be doing that. She can't recount all the times she's gone into the debriefing room and found it post-tornado warning from his lack of anger management.

A shaky hand rises in the air, hovers, fingers clasped before capsizing, palm up and relaxing. "Can I see?" He nods once to her disabled wrist.

She feels like a deer. A wild animal stumbling into a manmade trap and now everyone from PETA wants to aid her. Everyone who isn't responsible wants to remind her they aren't all bad. She's not a deer. Not prey. Not a victim. But his eyes meet hers and they're vibrating. Dancing with the need to help, the need to be needed. The need to right the wrongs and keep the peace. Without a single sound she succeeds her arm, entrusting him not to hurt her anymore.

Shifting closer to the bed, her arm rests parallel on his, fingers curling sideways at the pillowing material near the crook of his elbow. He's wearing a light fall jacket made out of brown suede that's gentle on her skin. Thick, round fingers softly touch her ballooning skin. Her toes flex, heels grind pestle and mortar to ignore the pain. The tip of his finger comes into direct contact with the fractured bone and the same sound pulsates her cavernous chest. Immediately his examination stops, all his movements stop and his eyes dart up at her from lowered brows. "Jules, has a doctor looked at this yet?"

A sporadic twitch of her head is a symbolic no.

"This is broken. In more than one place."

Well she knew that.

Placing four warm fingers under her arm he returns her injury to her. His face still grim, resentment deeply etched in the lines and bags collecting at his eyes. "I'm going to go get a doctor, okay? Someone needs to—"

The rubber stopper howls with anguish as someone enters the room. A cautious eye lift informs of an over six foot man. His approach is strict with daunting, ravishing steps. His eyes are low set dark marbles and his hair is the color of blood. He has the hands of a basketball player, like Lew. Large, but his are unkind, suffocating. They carry manila folders.

Right leg twitches, muscles clench at his presence. Sarge's fingers flick at air, unsure of how to treat the situation.

"Alright Julianna." The man speaks like he knows her. Like they're teammates. Old friends. Former lovers. Broad long fingers slowly peel over papers, pictures, x-rays. Left hand reaches out, strangles the lamp neck and bends it out of the way. Flinch. Semidarkness. Battleflag. Warcry. Four knuckles planted in her right eye socket to grow. What? Knuckle sandwiches. "I'm Dr. Parsons."

Parsons conquers the seat opposite of Sarge's. Left side. Closer to her. To close. Her legs circle in bicycle motion under the sheets, the pain is immediate.

"It's okay." Sarge's hand grips the guard rail on the bed, white knuckles, unwatered. His face is lost in the obscure lighting. Body struggles to shift back but nothing. He reaches forward to place a gentle hand on nothing. Enemy plane shoots it out of the air. "Is there any way she could see a female doctor?"

"I'm sorry?" Parsons tears his eyes away from the file, smug grin stretched over his lips. "Who are you?"

"I'm Greg Parker." A pause. A breath. For her several in tandem. Boss? Friend? Supplemental father figure? "A friend."

"A friend. Great." Folder flips closed. A solitary paper rests atop it. Single eight and a half by eleven piece of white paper holds her entire history. What they know. No one knows anything, nothing, everything. Not Sarge, or anyone else on the team. Not even Sam. "Well Greg, we just got hit with a triple MVA and doctors are spread a little thin right now. So unless she'd like to wait another hour or two to be treated I'm going to have to do."

"Sorry."

Parsons clears his throat. Open vent. Sputtering muffler. "Her MRI results show a minor right orbital fracture, a nondisplaced nasal fracture, three broken ribs, two cracked and a broken wrist in two spots" Long leg crosses over the other. Swings like a pendulum hanging, hypnotizing. "You got lucky."

Sarge's head pops from hiding between two steepled fingers. "Excuse me?"

"She got lucky. The impacts on the back of her head could have killed her alone. She has no permanent internal damage. Nothing requiring surgery and nothing that won't heal on its own. Aside from her lip which should fully heal, she'll have no facial scars. But she'll have to be admitted for at least three days because of her ribs and medical history."

Body half hunched over, pain clusters in her lower back. Eyes on knobby knees. Unsure, unaware of how Sarge reacts.

The folders splat against the small bedside table. Paper bowels, slightly dog-eared, spill across the short surface. "I'm going to set her wrist first and then stitch her lip."

"Don't tell me, tell her."

Parsons clears his throat. She doesn't even give him a wink. "I'm going to need your arm now."

Hand, discarnate, buoyant, belligerent, bellicose, launches forward. Grating gasp startles from her throat like a small bird. An inch in retreat and fireworks explode within her body. Pain swirls, ebbing up broken bones as pieces of flotsam. Neon bands of agony ribbon down her legs, spiral around her feet, crimp her toes. She sees it. Really sees it. The living room on the farm in Medicine Hat. Not always the living room. Bathroom, bedroom, basement, kitchen, garage. Adolescent body tumbling to the Berber carpet. Teenage body slammed into tacky wooden paneling. Boxes of empties, beer or scotch jittering, already spreading gossip.

Hand, treading air combative and pugilistic. Invades. She bucks off the bed in a motion clear cutting her innards. Healthy wrist forgets its disabled counterpart. It falls with a lifeless thud to her thigh. The pain is unbridled, uncontained like a fire within the parched, brittle, decay of her body. Oxygen isn't helping, isn't arriving fast enough to aid. She's inflammable. She's—cowering in the corner of the living room. A fifteen-year-old girl with a broken arm and a black eye. Sobbing because she misses her mom. Sobbing because there has to be something better. Pure alcohol skyscrapes, shadow of an ex-cop consuming her. Combustible, spontaneous strikes. Pleading—

"You're scaring her."

"I need to set her wrist."

Chin tips her head forward. Good eye scanning to room in hectic buzzing movements. Four older brothers. Not once did they ever volunteer to proxy. Not once did they even mumble a sentence, a word, a syllable. Wild pupil settles on Sarge who is screaming at the doctor. Too late she catches his movement.

Hand never ceasing, cuffs metal strong around the exact fracturing under her skin. Wrist screams, body convulses, muscles tighten, organs harden. Sarge pries the hand off. There's a cup of vomit sitting in her lap. Rain puddle with earthworms enticing her little bird voice to come out and play. Thin, acidic, one and a half Molson based. Pools on the pale wool blanket but doesn't drip through.

"You need to leave."

"Now I have to clean her lip because—"

"You need to leave now."

There's silence. Something she's missed, like a relative or old friend who lives on the other side of the country that she doesn't get to see all that often. No one she knows. Her lip starts to burn, rocks fueling fire.

"I'll send in a nurse to clean her up."

The rubber stop shrieks, weeps, pleads. Her good eye wrenches shut. Boots touch the ground three times, then four until Sarge is back by the chair. Cracking her eyelid she examines his stern expression, his jutting chin, set jaw, the way his nostrils gape with each noisy inhalation. He needs to throw something.

There's a gathering in the back of her throat. Not entirely physical though it feels that way. At first she think she might be sick again, but there's really nothing left in her to give. There's nothing for anyone left to take. There's nothing anyone should want. The way Sarge's fingers furl and unfurl is almost natural, like a piece of ribbon caught in the wind. The way the privacy curtain drapes mimics a La-Z-Boy chair she used for coverage in a living room. The words are raspy and wet. "I'm sorry."

He steps towards her and she flinches. Boot heel in her side. Fist in her face. Fingers crushing her bones. Instead there's crouching. He brings a hand forward and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, settling it in place behind the clear thin oxygen tube. "This is not your fault Jules."

Eye rolls downward. Shame. Mortification. Embarrassment. Weakness. Uselessness. Damsel in distress who somehow made it onto Team One.

Hand remains at her ear so long she thinks he might pull it away with a quarter. Dry eye lifts and when it meets his he repeats, "This is not your fault. No one thinks this is your fault."

A nod. A single nod that ends up more of a muscle spasm than a comprehensive gesture. He grins at her but it's broken. She broke him. The door squeals and sobs as the nurse enters. Her face contorted tightly into a silent mask of pity.

As she starts to collect the blanket he points to the door and says, "I'm going to—"

Oh God, she broke them all.

At the door he turns towards her. Hand lingering on the handle. The same demolished smile pulls at his lips, eyes shrouded by a layer of unshed emotions. He's failing in this negotiation and he knows it so he's abandoning her. "I'm going to go tell the guys how you are."

"I want to talk to Sam."

* * *

><p><em>AN the Second: Though there is the prospect of Sam/Jules on the horizon. The far horizon, where you have to squint to see where the sky meets the land, remember that I am not a truthful 'jammer' (ask SYuuri). Also remember that I am well aware of the psychology of the situation. Basically just trust me on this one. I have a reason for EVERYTHING that will happen._

_Next Chapter - More violence and repercussions for said violence. _


	5. Bounce Back

_A/N:Hey Guys, the following is a long ass author's note. Please do not review and tell me this chapter is massive, as I have not only written it, but read through it three times. So being the current expert in this chapter. I can ascertain that it is, in fact, massive. Please if you feel overwhelmed, I'll offer you friendly Canadian highway billboard advice, "Take a break. Fatigue Kills." I believe the Wii offers similar advice every hour of game play. The chapter is broken down into three distinct parts. Why not read one a day? Just don't tell me it's too long.  
>To all you Sam-haters out there (hate is bad. Let's use non-appreciators instead) I'm sorry to say he does play quite a major role in this story and if I have to write Ed, then you have to read Sam. If you'd like we can start a correspondence of letters on how much we non-appreciate it. To all you Ed lovers out there, don't be angry with me, I was born this way.<br>I will also restate that this story is set in season 2, two weeks after Lew (who is my favorite character now because he bitches the least when I write him) died. This means that yes, Sam and Jules did the nasty, but no they're not currently doing the nasty. However, evidence states (at least to me) that Sam just always wanted her. Therefore, those feelings are incorporated.  
>Also there will be some big character changes approaching in the very near future. You'll probably be upset. My heart bleeds for you, but I'm here like Lewis and Clark in unexplored territory and I want to see how M I can get this mother.<br>Lastly, thank you for your patience in waiting for this update. Thanks to those of you who took the time to review/favorite/alert and of course just to read. I realize the chapters can be overly detailed depending on the POV character so thanks for sticking around._

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 5

Bounce Back

The television in the waiting room is on mute. A newscaster mouths words as a picture of a frozen red police siren sits framed behind her, contrasting with the blue hued newsroom. Toronto is experiencing an epidemic of soundless televisions. He'll go home, Sophie will complain until he gets a word in edgewise to explain, and then go to turn on the TV just to check. It will sizzle and pop with a small spark and puff of smoke.

It's what his mind thinks of so he's not here. He's here, but not here. He's here with the tough love. With one man locked in a bathroom. One slipping into fragmented insanity, solitary in a row of four chairs. One buried in painful personal memories. And one beaten and bruised through an intricate triage system.

His boss on the other hand is walking towards him with the slow amble of a drunk. Observes him through the aquarium containing the carnival of the emergency room. Fancy dress shirt flashing covetously in a sea of scrubs and bandages. Is easily distinguishable because he knows Greg is perfectly healthy, but since waltzing past triage with a single backstage pass his face has grown paler. Ashen in comparison to the usual whiteness they all adopt in the Canadian pre-winter.

He knows it's bad. Knows from expression Greg wears, eyes open, round and unresponsive as he drifts to the triage door. Corner of his lip twitching. Few dollops of sweat just under his nose which spread when he wipes at his upper lip. He's seen the look many times before. When Spike brings his fingers near any bomb. When Sam was taken hostage. When Rolie got stuck repelling down the side of the SRU building while racing Jules when she was the rookie, he lost and never fully recovered his pride. When Wordy's vests intercepts bullets and Greg forces him to go get medical attention. When Jules got shot. When Lew blew up.

Greg cares. He cares too much. Gets too involved. Can't separate the two lives, the one within the SRU and the one outside its doors. Doesn't know when to draw the line between boss and friend. Replaced one addiction with another. It's especially bad with the younger ones. With Spike who gets him laughing and reminds him of the son he lost. Even worse with Jules. He doesn't know why, but knows exactly why she isn't as open with him.

The problem is there has to be a line. A divide. Their job is worrying about people. Worrying about people who actually need a mediator. People who actually need saving. Good, honest people. The people who've snapped and waver on the edges of buildings and bridges. The people with gun barrels digging into their temples. The people who live in suburbs where some maniac has set up a chemical weapon in his furnace. Even the people who started the mutated playground fight because at the end of the day, nine times out of ten, they all just want to go home safely. He can't jeopardize innocent lives because he's concerned about the team. If there's a problem, let them sort it out themselves. This is why Sam currently remains in the bathroom.

If a problem persists, cut them. Being on Team One is a prestigious position. Each person is a single girder for the support structure of the team. One of them snaps, the whole building goes down. Hurdles and fissures shouldn't be allowed. It's the reason he voted to keep Donna in place. The reason he may have been so against bringing Jules on the team to begin with. It wasn't just because they all had to come in the weekend before she arrived to clean out the women's locker room they were using as storage.

He stops his pacing; he's mowed enough linoleum to almost see into the morgue. Greg stops before them, arms unhinged and gangly. Uncomposed. A leaky man. It's beyond bad. Spike keeps his reclined position like he's on his couch at home watching a game show with a bowl of popcorn.

Wordy dares a glimpse into the real world. Eyes barely opening, barely taking in the bright, ostentatious lighting. "How is she?"

"Bad." Not really a vocal response, more of a throat gurgle.

"How bad?" Spike doesn't remove his arms hanging over the back of the chairs. Doesn't even incline his head an inch towards the conversation. Removed, but not removed. Metal instability cloaking itself as arrogance instead of tough love.

"You don't need to know how bad," Wordy answers softly.

"Then why did I—"

"Really bad, Spike." Greg steps closer to Wordy, closes the area between the team so their conversation isn't over broadcasted, doesn't become false words for the news. The meeting is more like a sports huddle now. Discussing options and updates. It should all be pretty straight forward. She'll be in the ICU. "She's refusing pain medication."

He groans. It's not meant to be rude, it's just they should have thought of this. She's Jules. Of course she is.

"Guilt." Wordy's mouth has once again disappeared behind his fused hands. One of his index fingers taps against his chin. "She thinks she deserves this."

"Did she say anything about the guy who did it?" His right knee keeps knocking forward. Fingers strum against his side. Doesn't think he could sit if he was told to. Too much anger, too much adrenaline.

Greg runs a hand over his lower lip again. It trembles lightly. "She didn't say anything. She apologized once." Wordy sighs at this information. "They were sewing up her lip when I left. They're keeping her for a few days up in the ICU."

"So we're not going to get to see her?"

"We'll see her tomorrow." Greg smiles calmly at Spike, pinched cheeks not hiding welling eyes. He points at the bandages on Spike's hand, "What happened?"

"Spike decided to go a round with the bathroom mirror."

"Oh."

He expected a little more than 'oh'. Maybe a glance of disapproval. Maybe a line of questioning concerning if Spike had to pay for the damages, if he needed some money to do so. Maybe a lighthearted joke about Spike watching where he's going but all they get is an 'oh'.

"Sarge?" Sam appears from around the corner, finally tiptoeing out of his bathroom shell, expanding into bigger and broader horizons.

They expect the usual interrogation. The onslaught of questions. The hyperactive anger that reverts Sam back into a college freshman. He wishes there was a button to get Sam to revert back into an new army recruit. Just obedient. Just once.

But Greg interrupts his performance before it can begin. With the same weary showtime smile he announces, "She wants to see you Sam."

"Of course she does." Spike groans.

"Greg, do you really think that's a good idea." He thinks of the team. Of the precarious Jenga structure they already are with Lew deceased and Jules out of commission. Someone new will have to be brought in. Feelings don't need to get overly involved. Feelings will. He knows they will.

"You want to tell her she can't?"

Sam doesn't acknowledge the blooming argument, or Spike's preteen complaints. Just strides to the triage nurse without uttering another word. Again, Greg acts as a friend, not a boss and reels him in. "Sam, she's—" Greg pauses hand flexing in the air as he stumbles to think of the right phrasing to not offend. "She's hurt badly and in a lot of pain. You can't react to her. You can't show her pity or anger or—"

"I know."

"This is real Sam." He stands even with Greg, shrinking Greg. He straightens his back, establishing the tough love thing because someone's going to have to tell Sam things he doesn't want to hear.

"You think I don't know that?"

"This isn't like the class."

"He barely passed the class." Spike mutters.

"If she tells you to leave, you need to leave. If you get angry or emotional you need to leave. "

Sam doesn't answer, doesn't give the tightlipped, stern-faced nod he expects. Doesn't respond to any of them. Just turns and sprints towards the triage nurse who buzzes him through. He remains still for a few seconds after Sam disappears. Doesn't want to know why Jules wanted to see him. Doesn't want to know what it will do to the team. Tries to focus on the fact Jules is level headed enough, thinking straight enough to make a request. Offers him little solace.

They continue to stare through the glass to the emergency room like it's an exotic zoo exhibit. Spike slaps his hands against his thighs, rubs what must be raw hands by now against the loose fabric on his pants and stands. "I'm done."

"Huh?" Wordy. The Thinker. Back arched mind tortured, probably missed the whole conversation with Sam.

"I'm going home guys. Let me know if anything changes."

"Spike, are you kidding me?" Tough love ready to strike some sense into Spike. He gets he just lost Lew, they all did. He gets this is a shocking situation. It is for all of them. There's nothing he's going through that they're not dealing with.

"No Eddy." Greg puts a limp hand on his shoulder. It's deadweight. Approaches Spike stoic, unresponsive, extremely fatigued and a different man. "If he wants to go he should. I'll drive him. I have to stop by HQ to fill out paperwork anyway. Can you guys make it home okay?"

He can only stare. Mouth curves, slightly opened, a hooked fish. Doesn't respond verbally at all. None of them should be abandoning this place. Sure there's a fine line between caring and obsessing, but there's a huge canyon between caring and not giving a shit. Only nods when Wordy agrees it would be fine.

Then they're left in silence. Him and his best friend of almost twenty years. Left in each other's flickering habits like the pulsing splices silenced televisions offer. Wordy and his veiling hands, him and his jackhammer boots. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passes until he finally can't take it anymore.

"That was weird."

"Hmm." Wordy's head bobs up and he inhales the sickly sour reality. Injustice. Sanitizer. "What was weird?"

"Greg, the way he was acting."

"He saw Jules. People react in different ways."

"I don't understand why he acts so different with her."

"Maybe because on her first day you almost killed her."

He cracks a smile because he knows his friend is trying to bring some macabre humor into the situation. Picking at old scabs. Salting the wounds beneath. Not so much about the constant reminder of what he did, but the I-told-you-so. Wordy warned him before hand. The thing is none of them talk about it. Greg, Wordy, himself or Jules. She has every right in the world to bring it up whenever he demands anything of her, but she never has. He doubts she ever will. "Is this never talking about it again?"

More seconds pass, evolve into minutes. More people enter the waiting room. At this point he's seen people come into the emergency room bleeding, broken, in hysterics and leave with a prescription in hand. Drugs. Addictives to replace the pain. Pain to replace emptiness.

"We're going to have to watch him now." It's disturbing. Not so much the words, or the connotation, but the cadence of Wordy's voice. Eerie. Dangerous. Rebellious. Apathetic. A convict in a confessional. He's played this role before. Is forlornly the expert.

"Who? Spike?" He almost laughs despite himself. Spike, the little guy they keep locked away in the truck to trace things and hack into secure accounts and cut wires. The worst thing he could do is order the wrong thing online. Get the robot caught in shag carpeting again. "Spike is harmless; he just needs more than a two beer buzz."

"Not—" Wordy's jaw sets and he turns away a moment. Fingers momentarily unlocking to ball into fists. "Not Spike. Sam. Sam is going to see what Jules looks like and he's going to lose it."

"So? He's due for a rampage."

"Ed, he'll find this guy and he'll kill this guy."

He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to respond. How anyone would want him to respond. How Greg would respond. Doesn't matter because it's not how he would respond. These people are adults who can make conscious adult decisions and he shouldn't have to be there lurking over their shoulders clicking his tongue at their bad life choices. Shouldn't have to be a proxy for Greg. Shouldn't have to keep a short leash on Sam and wonder of the mental state of Spike. He has a family of his own to take care of. Sure, they're his friends and sure he'd support any of them in generalities. But when he becomes a father figure, it's gone too far.

Instead he excuses himself for a few minutes. Wordy won't mind, he's doing backstrokes down memory lane anyway. Steps outside the emergency room doors among the smokers who shudder in the early October frost. Some have IV stands, some have oxygen tanks and he mentally punches back the warning signals flashing in his head.

He folds up the collar of his jacket, plans on walking the curve of pavement around to the front of the hospital and back. Free-range pacing. The air is refreshing, real, not recycled or industrialized and pumped in like gas. It's dark, a little foggy, the streetlights creating a casual haze. The perfect kind of weather for Halloween, which is still two weeks away. Clark says he's getting too old to go out, just wants to stay at home and eat the bought candy without doing any of the legwork.

In the stillness of the night, only marred by the moaning traffic and preset dance of traffic lights, his cell phone rings. He assumes it's Roy again. Breaking the rules. Calling him to tell him they got the guy. Relieve all of Team One from drowning, from suffocating. From not being able to live up to predestined biological traits. Caller I.D. tells him it's not. It's his wife. His wife who is safe and sound at home. Unscathed.

"Hey Soph," He answers the phone, guarding it against a strong gust of wind.

"Ed, where the hell are you?"

"Listen, I—"

"No you listen. I get you're mourning and I'm sorry about Lew. But it's been two weeks of you going out and getting drunk. I don't need it, Clark doesn't need it."

"No, Soph. There's something—"

"Whatever it is, you can tell me about it whenever you decide to come home."

She hangs up the phone. Slams it. It resonates well after his phone declares the call ended and flashes the amount of time he spent with her. Forty-two seconds. So he keeps walking, shoes don't scuff over the shattered concrete. The front of the hospital becomes a mirage, a memory in Wordy's extensive collection.

Two blocks away he finds a bar. Not really a bar, not really a pub, more of a dive bar. The kind usually raided for drugs or prostitution but apparently Sophie thinks this is where he belongs. That he hits the bottle until he's so inebriated he can't lift his hand to hit it again. So he soberly climbs the three stairs and finds the place more modest than he expected. Aside from a few heavy drinkers, muscular tattooed and professional alcoholic types, it's empty.

The bar stools are old fashioned, the kind you see in shoot 'em up movies where cowboys hold standoffs on deserted town streets. They're interesting enough for him to perch on, dig his elbows into the counter sticky with years of alcoholic residue. The televisions play highlights from that night's hockey game. The volume is on.

The bartender notices him after a few seconds, prying herself away from the Leafs' scores. She's young, almost too young, an anachronism in this place. Her black hair is twisted up into a messy bun on the back of her head and accentuated by small ribbons of color. She's wearing a black, low cut tank top. Her collarbone is partnered with a few ribs puncturing against the skin on her chest. But the green apron tied around her waist over extenuates the curvaciousness of her hips making her body appear disproportioned.

He expects her voice to be baritone because of her height. To be low and sultry. But when she speaks the exact opposite is true. She speaks in a high pitch, not exactly nasally, but almost childish. "You look like you've had a rough day."

It's a line straight out of the movies. One where the cowboy action hero is supposed to reply in a gravelly voice that she 'doesn't know the half of it'. Except she doesn't and he wants to keep it that way. It's bad enough that his wife doesn't care what the fuck is happening to him, but even worse a stranger is offering him some sense of consolation. "One of the worst."

"Want to talk about it?" She sets out a coaster. Might be attempting to force her breasts to pucker with the sides of her biceps.

"What I really want is a strong, hard shot of whiskey."

"Okay." She leans forward against the counter, arms folded underneath her chest promoting her cleavage. Her face is modernly pretty. Stark, thin, arching eyebrows. A few dark beauty marks scattered across her cheeks and chin. "Can I get some I.D.?"

"Are you kidding me?"

She straightens her back out, snaps her chewing gum, and flicks her hands in the air with a shrug. "Look Buddy, I don't make the rules. If you want the drink, you're going to have to show me some I.D."

He doesn't know why he retrieves his wallet, his driver's license. Maybe it's because despite the traditional repulsiveness of this girl, her playful banter is the only beacon in the otherwise bleak night. Dealing with what happened to Jules, with how the team's reacting. She's the only one who's asked about him. His best friend didn't care. His boss who cared about everything and everyone up until an hour ago didn't care. His own wife didn't care. Maybe he just really needs that drink. So he flips open his wallet, shows her his license.

"No shit." She pulls at the wallet in his hand, but he doesn't relinquish it, so she just stares instead. All her perfectly formed and chemically whitened teeth gleaming in the semidarkness of the bar, clashing against her engineered orange skin. "You're a cop."

She must have noticed his badge. Always keeps it with his wallets on nights off. "Yeah."

"My ex-boyfriend is a cop."

"You don't say."

She must sense his tone. Enthused expression drains from her face and she bounces off the counter to retrieve his drink. "He broke up with me tonight." The monologue happens over her shoulder, decorated with jewels glued to her skin in a spiral pattern. "Left me at the restaurant, made me pay for dinner and everything."

That part irks him a bit. There are bad first dates, horrible second ones, even worse long-term relationships, but something he's never done is force a woman to pay her own way out of a meal. Maybe it's the old-fashioned way he was raised by his dad, maybe it's the one decent chivalrous bone he has left in his body. "I'm sorry that some guys out there give bad names to the rest of us."

"He was too young for me anyway. I'm into more mature guys." The drink clanks to the counter. Whiskey, neat. He only asked for a shot, but he'll take it. When the glass is to his lips he takes a gulp, than another. Half empty. His phone rings again. This time it's Wordy. Playtime is over, he has to return to duty, hold down the fort, stand in for Greg who is bingeing on his emotions.

"What do I owe you?"

"First one's always free." She winks at him. Lotus covered fingernails slide a cocktail napkin towards him with high school penmanship scrawled across it complete with a happy face. "In case you ever do want to talk."

"I'm very flattered." He leaves the napkin on the counter, treats it like radioactive material. Slips off the stool to stand before her, ignoring her eyes sweeping over him. He lifts his right hand and wiggles a certain finger. "But I'm married."

Her pink tongue peeks out to wet her lips as she leans against the bar again. Legs crossed, almost donkey kicking with excitement. "That's never stopped me before."

* * *

><p>Guilt. He's producing all kinds of guilt. Wafts off of him like cigarette smoke, curls menthol flavored into the hectic catacomb of the emergency room until it becomes a tangible entity. His only companion while trailing the nurse into the bowels of the hospital. She weaves her way through the bodies of traffic. He doesn't know if he'll be able to talk to Jules. How much will be viable conversation pieces. His remorse is usually construed as pity by her anyway, and despite what the rest of the team might think, he doesn't want to piss her off.<p>

Basically he can't say a single thing to her. He can't tell her he'll get the guy. As much as he'd like to enact a vicious brand of homemade vengeance, it's not in his or the SRU's jurisdiction. He's the guy who hides in the brush, in the scaffolding and on the roofs of tall buildings waiting to be whispered a trigger word so he can sink a bullet into someone's brainpan. He's never walked a beat, wouldn't know what to do if they dressed him in cop colors and put him on the street. It's not a world he's trained to be in.

In some misconstrued sense, he feels guilty over the way he treated Lexus. Not the whole blatantly using her for sex thing, but how he treated her on the phone just now. Her inherent stupidity was still no reason for his crassness. He grew up with a shaky mother, two sisters who are always on the wrong end of an intense relationship and a father who still doesn't give a flying fuck. He's seen the damage one man can do, the fallouts it has on his family. When he was still in grade school, maybe eight or nine, he finally understood the way The General treated the family wasn't ordinary, wasn't how other dads acted. He vowed he'd be better than The General.

Instead he abandons Jules when she needs him most. Is malicious about it, a visible sneer on his face so her heart twinges and aches the same way his did in that coffee shop. The day Lew dies she openly cries. Selects him out of the collecting officers back at the barn, pulls him to the side and through stuttering words, unsteady hands and trembling lips she asks if they can talk. If they can go out for a beer and just have a conversation. He doesn't know what it's about. Will never know because in blunt words he explains she's a waste of his time. He wants to beat the shit out of that Sam and the stupid playground rules he abides by. He wants to knock his own teeth free because it wasn't the way he felt. Not then, now or ever. He just wanted to hurt her like she hurt him.

Instead he tells Lexus to shut the fuck up. He bets she hears it often, probably from uncouth strangers, because she wasn't exactly offended at his choice in words. Maybe they have a deeper impact on him because he's said them to another girl once before and she didn't exactly let him slide by with a warning. Maybe because the last time he said that exact phrase, Jules shut him out in every possible way.

The nurse gestures to a solitary door. Doesn't give him a pep talk, doesn't offer him any advice, just leaves him to do his own biding in the hospital. They don't even know his relation to Jules. They don't even have security guarding her door. Sure there's that whole gate at triage, but after circumventing it there's nothing. He sighs once and doesn't allow himself to hesitate. She needs him. Asked for him specifically out of everyone present. He opens the door and it glides silently across the ground.

Their relationship began with him helping her construct a living room within her house. Smashing walls, renovating others. Fixing leaking pipes and faulty wiring. Building, priming and painting drywall. Waiting with his hand on her hip in the hardware store while she flip-flopped between Santorini blue and celadon green. Hanging track lighting over new couches and chairs he helped her transport home from secondhand stores because she refused to buy new.

In hindsight, as the room neared completion, so did their relationship. Once, after a half day at work following a successful drug raid, they were putting the finishing personal touches on the room. She placed a nature-patterned pillow into this big black armchair she bought to read in. Only all he could think of was using it for less socially acceptable armchair activities with her.

After she stopped placing random knickknacks on the coffee tables, oddly shaped bowls full of nothing and the best smelling candles in the world, she brought out the hammer and nails to put up some framed pictures. His arms slung around her waist from behind and he kissed the side of her neck, chucked when her shoulders ascended in a defensive maneuver. "Need some help?"

Her cool hand rubbed at his cheek, thumb caressed the underside of his chin. "Don't you have a TV to set up?"

He did. A new TV. A flat screen plasma TV he'd convinced her to buy because she needed something new in the room. He'd argued with her in the store, in the spotlights by the sectionals that he could set it up. That he was perfectly capable of hooking up cable and a DVD player. After all how hard was it to plug one thing into another? To this day he's sworn he's done it before, but everything before Afghanistan tends to blur into the same brightly colored, hastily slopped together painting.

A smug grin blossomed on her lips and she tapped his cheek twice. She fixed up that entire room while dragging around his deadweight. Sure, he helped clear away pieces of drywall, or painted a section too high for her to reach. Occasionally, he succeeded in tackling her into the debris, got her half naked body covered in drywall powder or Santorini blue paint.

But she fixed the plumbing in the wall, monkey wrench in hand, loose ponytail and wriggling body as he just reclined and enjoyed the view. The top of her tattoo glowed over her jeans. Her tongue poked out of the side of her mouth. He took a picture with his cell phone once and she jumped him because apparently that was incriminating evidence. He just wanted to prove he was useful for something. He could set up a TV. It was straight forward.

So he pecked the corner of a smile which suggested he was already going to fail, and had the full intentions of returning to the towering TV. But then he noticed the pictures for the first time. They were all scenery. Black and white farmscapes, maybe from Medicine Hat. He arched an eyebrow and retreated to the safe distance behind the TV. "You do have a family right?"

They've only ever discussed his in detail. The General who still uses the oxymoron of tough love and has an iron fist ruling in his life even though he's over thirty. His mother who's straight out of the pages of a 1950s homemaker magazine. His sisters who continually fuck up everything from their schooling, to their relationships, to their jobs yet still stand in better favor with his parents. He didn't, still doesn't know a damn thing about her family.

She grinned at him sideways, let out a dry laugh and shook her head. She was dressed for December in the middle of April, but the sweater she wore did a great job of hiding the hickeys he now had a high success rate of leaving hanging off her collarbone like ripe fruit. Her attention returned to the blank Santorini canvas where she wanted to hang at least the three portrait sized pictures of farm things. A rotting wooden wheel against the side of a barn. A barrel beside a shovel. An endless dirt road. "Yes I have a family. Almost everyone has a family."

"Who are they?"

"The Callaghans"

He chuckled, hands tangled wrist deep into a dozen wires. All different neon hues from 1980s sci-fi movies. "You know what I mean, Jules."

She sighed. Remained quiet for a moment or two, stared at the wall in contemplation with a single hand on her hip. Then she leaned forward and punctured a small dot with a pencil. "I have a father and four brothers."

"Wow." It was intimidating as hell. If the men in her family were anything like her, then he was going to need to stand his ground. Or never meet them. "Are you—"

"I'm the youngest." She answered for him and blindly fished for the leveler in a toolbox on the ground. Her eyes steady on the penciled dot, like it might bounce away if she ignored it.

He swallowed, exerted a little 'ah'. The thought of five grown men all wanting to beat the shit out of him just for touching Jules was not an idea he was fond of, but he understood it. He has two baby sisters and he always hated the variants of scum they brought home. "So they're all overprotective right?"

"You'd think so, right?" Her voice muffled by a nail sticking out between clenched teeth. "We don't get along."

He wrenched his head over the horizon of the massive television, hoped to analyze her based on her stature, her expression, but she's completely normal. "You and your dad?"

She freed the nail from her mouth, held it dexterously between forefinger and thumb. "Me and my anyone."

"Why not?"

"Not today, Sam."

"Oh." Abandoning the host of wires which resembled octopus tentacles, he removed himself from behind the TV and approached her again, more interested in learning about her personal life than trying to impress her with his technological skills. "What about your mom?"

"That's enough for today." And her voice lost the sarcastic undertone it gained when he started asking personal questions, like she put up with it for him. The point of the nail dug into the wall and the hammer pounded into it with a pent up force.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." He managed when she finally stopped hitting the wall. He thought she might bring this one down too. "I just wanted to know a little more about you."

"We're dating Sam; we don't have to know everything about each other." She turned away from him, tossed the hammer back into the toolbox. It landed with a clang. She wiped the sweat from under her bangs. "There are things that are going to be off limits."

"Like what?" He challenged and he really shouldn't have. He knew they were both stubborn. It worked out in his favor in some aspects, like when he was horny. And other times it didn't, like when he challenged her verbally. He always lost.

"Like Matt."

"Okay." He nodded immediately succeeding the argument to her. He didn't want to fight with her. He wanted to love her. He wanted to christen the new monumental armchair with her. Wanted to have his legs tangled with hers. Wanted to leave shadowed sweat marks on the leather she'd complain about and grow a flushed over whenever he mentioned.

Except she didn't want to win that easy. Didn't think he learned anything from giving in that fast and she wanted to hurt him like he hurt her. "Like how he was your best friend."

"Okay Jules."

"And he trusted you."

"Stop Jules."

"And you friendly fired on him."

"Shut up Jules."

"And even though you were cleared, part of you still doubts if you were really cleared."

"Shut the fuck up Jules."

His voice was loud, accosting. The type and cadence he uses when he bursts into a room with a gun and tells a subject to get down on the ground. She stepped back, disengaged from him. "What?"

He lightly groaned, felt guilty about his sudden outburst at his girlfriend and using his SRU big boy voice. He rubbed at his forehead, eyes darted away in shame. "Just be quiet. Stop with the Matt stuff, okay? I get it. Your mom is off limits. I'll never ask again."

But he misinterpreted her question. Her posture became active, a combat stance, arms at her side, fingers clenched into craggy fists. Her feet rooted into the ground. Eyes were coin-slot thin while the corner of her lip twitched with each deep inhalation she took. "What did you just say to me?"

Repressing the need to roll his eyes, he showed her his empty palms. He surrendered. He would have waved a white flag if he had one. She won. He was sorry. He was going to apologize and spend the rest of the night apologizing. "Look Jules, I'm sor—"

"Get out of my house."

Then he was lost. He didn't understand what he did to piss her this much. Something between the two of them wasn't connecting, or he was missing the significance. He wanted to know what he did. In all of his previous relationships, if they could be called that, he walked away from tough confrontations. Left during the shouting fests, but with Jules it was different. With Jules it's permanent. "What? What's wr—"

"You think you can talk to me like that at all? Let alone in my own house?" The palms of her hands jutted out of the hips of her jeans, the tight jeans he was so looking forward to peeling off of her while they watched a horror movie, or more likely snowstorm static because he didn't know what the fuck he was doing with the TV. "Do you need me to put it into language you can understand, Sam? Get the fuck out of my house."

Her voice held a cadence he'd never heard, held an octave that echoed off the walls, trembled the only framed picture on the wall. He did as she asked; only because he was afraid she might blow out a blood vessel in her brain from rage. He tried to interject, explain that he'd just lost his temper and meant nothing by it, but she pushed him out the front door and slammed it behind him. The neighbors, an elderly couple sitting on their porch swing, shook their heads disapproving of the whole affair. The young family on the opposite side concurred.

For the next two days he tried to contact her. Tried phoning her and after the second ring it always went directly to her voicemail. She knew he was trying to reach her and hung up after recognizing his number. Even at work, the universe schemed against him and put them in different rigs with different partners. He supposes he should have been equally pissed. Any guy in his right mind would have perceived her explosion as 'drama' and hopped off that train. She was giving him an out, but he didn't want it.

The act. The screaming. The scene. It wasn't Jules. There was more behind it than him just pissing her off with his unfiltered expletives. It disturbed him, because it disturbed her. It disturbed him because he evoked these feelings within her. He laid awake in his queen size hotel bed which hardly ever got slept in anymore. The sheets felt heavy and sharp. The room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. He missed the cold feet pressing into his knees. Missed trying to sneak a glimpse of certain ink. Trying to trace it with his tongue.

On the third day, a Sunday, their day off, he arrived at her house at ten in the morning. The elderly couple was at church. The family on the other side was already up and making more noise than an action movie. In a ballsy move, which would surely cause him the relationship if not his life, he found the spare key under the elaborate welcome mat, opened the ornately beautiful first door and unlocked the second front door.

Only the chain lock was engaged. "Oh come on Jules."

"Go away Sam." Echoed in from the kitchen.

"No." He shook his head, licked his lower lip in defiance, very ready to carry on a conversation with her through the three inch gap in the front door. "Nope. We need to talk."

"About what?"

"I'm sorry. I really am. Please I just want to—"

Her contour appeared in the archway to the kitchen. Maybe she held a mug of coffee. Maybe her gross mango shit. She was dressed in Sunday pajamas, fuzzy fleecy bottoms and a tank top. One Sunday he woke up and she was wearing lingerie. An inadvertent smile grew on his lips. "What are you even sorry about, Sam?"

It was a fair question. An obvious question. Or was it? He knew Jules. He knew Jules better than his sisters, or his parents. He knew Jules better than anyone on this planet, and she liked to trick him into fucking himself over. But honestly how could it get worse than trying to talk down his girlfriend through a locked front door? "I'm sorry for swearing at you."

She scoffed. He was wrong. He banged his head against the door hard. So hard he was on the verge of swearing again but bit his tongue for her sake. He didn't want to say the wrong thing and light off the powder keg again. Even if they weren't going to resolve the fight, he wanted to know the solution to her conundrum. The brain teaser of how he pissed her off this time. He was willing to change anything down to his DNA for her. Apparently it wasn't enough.

But somewhere between when he wrongly answered her and when he bashed his forehead off solid wood, she approached the other side of the door. Metal clinked as the chain disengaged. She opened the door to him.

When he stepped through the threshold, she took a visible step back, established space between them. Other fights have been halted by his ability and talent to quickly gather her up, placing enticing and precise kisses. He knew it only worked because she let it. She shut the door, locked the bolt and chain. "Jules—"

"Do you think I'm garbage?"

He didn't think he could manage a more stunned reaction from when she erupted on him three days ago. But her voice was stable; it wasn't full of sarcasm or self-pity. It was neutral, like she believed the question and it broke his heart. He took a step forward, wanted to hold her now to comfort her, because something was wrong. "No. Never."

"Then—"

"Jules." He stood before her, afraid to touch her in case she wrenched away from him. "You're my everything."

Tears packed behind her eyes, their stay was brief before she quelled them away. A pseudo sniff and the glassiness absorbed, left only normal eyes, brown irises, void of tears, void of emotion. She reached forward, wrapped four fingers and a thumb around his left hand. "Then don't treat me like garbage."

"Never." He pulled her towards him, crushed her against his chest as he breathed in the scent he was without for three days. Three long, sleepless days in a phantom hotel room. Everything in it fake. Everything about her real. He bent his head so his nose rested on the dip running from her neck to her shoulder. It was soft, freshly showered. Nothing but flowers. Her hair coiled strains between his fingers and he sighed.

"Jules?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Her breath was hot rasps in his ear. Unwavering. Stern.

"One day?"

Her cheek pressed into his, it felt wet. But her body was still, breaths were even and he didn't want to upset her by making her feel weak at her own emotions. He knew Jules too damn well. Instead he held her tighter. Wished he could tell her he loved her. Loved her like he couldn't describe. Her hand ran up the back of his neck, tangled through the hair on his head. "Yeah." She nodded once and sighed simultaneously. "One Day."

One day never came. The next day she got shot.

"Hey Jules." It's the same greeting. The same six month old greeting. It sits stale in the corners of his mouth. Sticks to the roof like peanut butter. Digs under his gums like popcorn kernels. He remembers exactly what happened six months ago. Called her Sweetheart and told her how he should have protected her. How much he loved her. How she appeared so at peace in a synthetic sleep. Calm face in a light sheen of sweat creating a heavenly glow. She looked like an angel.

She doesn't look anything close to peaceful, serene, or ethereal. Where her skin is actually unmarred, it's bronzed from the mixture of dirty sweat and dry blood. The right side of her face is unrecognizable. Ballooning out and collapsing in on itself. Her right eye and her nose are an indistinguishable mass leaking onto her lip. Her bottom lip was split, now reconciled in the large, fat loops found on a football. It's swollen, distends a little, hanging loosely away from her mouth. Her left eye carries the collateral damage from the impact, stardust of purple and black thrown over her eyelid like confetti. The most disturbing part is her brown iris transformed red under the collision. Like a chameleon, decided to change its color to fit into its environment.

There is a thick ring of black around her neck. A constant reminder of hands, large hands, gripping, grasping, squeezing, forcing and holding her down. Creating a submissive Jules. Her right arm is slung against her chest, wrapped tightly, encased in plaster. Suspends flaccid from her body, unattached. Her left arm curls like a snake against her stomach. Fingers into palm. Palm into wrist. Wrist against bicep. The rest of her is shielded by blankets and the hospital gown.

She looks nothing like the Jules he knows. But he knows she is his Jules. It unnerves him. Perturbs him. Disgusts him. He pauses shutting the door behind him just so he can have a moment to justify what he's seen. What's happened. That it's actually happened. They told him it happened. She's here, so it must have happened. But now that he's seen her it's concrete and he didn't know how he would feel. Two emotions establish control. Guilt, the omnipresent guilt at constantly failing her as a teammate, a friend, a lover, a boyfriend.

And rage. A blinding, self-immolating rage that dries his mouth, nostrils and eyes. Devours his conscience. He wants to find this guy and feel the crack of his windpipe. He will. He will find this guy even if it means losing everything he's built with her, with the team, in Toronto, in his lifetime. The team won't take care of her so he will. The cops won't righteously punish the guy so he will. If she asks him too he will. If she asks him not to, he won't. Starting now, he's doing whatever she wants because the more he thinks about it, in taking a lesser position on a lesser team he would still be with her. Still be holding her, caring for her, openly loving her, and none of this would have happened. He would have been there when the guy attacked and he would have destroyed him.

"I—"

"Sam." Her voice is tiny. A breath. So frail. It's small, but it can still pack a wallop. "Get me out of here."

He stops before the bed, afraid to get too close. Afraid he might start trying to repair things she doesn't want fixed. No one has even bothered to clean her up. There's a dead riverbed of blood from her nostrils to her upper lip no one has wiped up. He keeps his distance at the foot of the bed, not wanting to impose on her. "What?"

"Last time." The words are heavy breaths as she digs her shoulders into the pillows. She keeps a steady pace of inhalations, apparently trying to work around a jam in her chest. Her ribs. He's seen it before. Too many times with her before. "Last time you signed me out early. Sign me out."

He shakes his head, licks his lips, turns away unable to stop the movement in his fingers because he wants to wash off the blood so bad. Wants to clean off all the evidence of it. He can't sign her out. He's not her emergency contact anymore is he? He's not her significant other. It's harmful to her mentality to stay in the hospital sure, but she needs to talk to someone, needs painkillers, and needs oxygen for her matchstick ribs.

"Sign me out." Her voice is stronger; she's forcing it, like squeezing on the rolled end of the toothpaste to get the last bits out. Her arm is unraveled, hugging her left side. "Sam, please."

"Okay." He nods, sighs, glances up, runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, but you need to let me help you."

"I just want to be alone."

"Jules." His voice cracks before he can stop it. It might as well be thunder. Might as well be followed by a streak of lightening. "This is—"

"Don't fucking start, Sam." There is a little flicker of his Jules underneath the pummeled husk of a body. Under the mounds of contusions, burst blood vessels, broken bones. "Don't fucking start. I can't deal with this. And being here. And the medical staff. And the Team. And have to deal with you on top of it."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Just shut the fuck up."

"And sign you out."

"Well that would knock two things off the list and then maybe I could find the time to deal with your theatrics."

A dry chuckle grounds in the back of his throat like a rusty engine motor. An action, a special type of laughter he hasn't gotten to employ for two months. The humor and mirth she elicits in him is so different even if it is done with a blatant sarcasm usually underlined by anger. He recalls asking her questions, quizzical equations he couldn't ponder the answers to in a million sleepless nights, and her answers being sweet simple statements laced with sarcasm intent on making him feel like a moron.

Her lips might twitch into a smile. A hint of a smile. Maybe they twitch in pain. He's preoccupied with the empty brook of blood, the dehydrated flakes. He wonders if all she can taste is pennies. The overbearing tartness and saltiness of tin from her own body.

"What's wrong here?" Her arm uncoils from her torso to quiver into the air. Stops at her collarbone, and point languidly to the dried blood. "You keep staring. Is it bad?"

"What?" His hands release the foot of the bed, didn't realize he'd been gripping so hard. They grow cold under the accumulation of warm sweat in the cold atmosphere of the room. He doesn't want to have to describe her appearance to her. It's not fair to either of them.

"Do I still have a nose?"

"Of course you still have a nose."

"Then what are you staring at?"

He sighs. Dries his hands off in his hair and doesn't want to look back at her. Doesn't want to have to examine what she looks like now. She's Jules. Always will be Jules. But she looks like the pictures he's only seen in old case files, the pictures he's only dealt with during one day of offhanded training because SRU officers don't really get that hands on during abuse cases. "You just have a little something under your nose."

"Oh." She pauses. Tries to roll her lips to get a sense of what it is, but her face must be numb in pain. Must be numb in a lingering shock. Neither of her hands can reach to her face. She's immobilized and he gets flashes of what he thinks it's must have been like. A wrath induced heat sweeps over his body, flushing the back of his neck, popping beads of sweat onto his skin and he turns away from her. "Is it that bad?"

It's the most unfair fucking question in the world. It's unfair of her to ask to him. Unfair for him to answer. Unfair for them to be dealing with this situation when their relationship is still newly deceased. When he still has some of her clothing at his apartment because she left it in his hotel room after a quickie in the shower because of one particularly awful day at work. When Lew is still freshly scattered, body to dust, blasted into the air like they were on Cape Canaveral.

He answers her in one specific answer. He can't in generalizations. Can't risk parading into the other categories of is Lew's death that bad, or is the swift decapitation of their relationship that bad, or is her body that bad. She was always perfect to him. Is still perfect. Will always be perfect. He wants to hold her right now and swear to her he'll never fail her again. Two times is just shy of becoming a pattern, after which there's no hope of return.

"It's just dry blood," his voice rasps out, cracks once, but loudly like two vehicles sideswiping. He's at the sink. Another sink, another mirror, the same fucked up reflection of a red exhausted face, though now the fatigue is counterbalanced and overthrown by fury.

He digs around in a generic glass container full of cotton pads. Jules uses the same ones to remove her nail polish on those rare occasions when she actually wears some. Usually on her toes. Usually in the summer. Usually with sandals when they went to the beach. He wonders if she still wears the same shades. If her toenails are painted now. Wonders if the guy even noticed them. Wonders if the guy even knew what it meant.

In lukewarm water, he soaks the pad. He's sure she won't be able to feel the temperature on her face from the amount of damage done to it, but he's also sure too many cold distant things have invaded her body today and he doesn't need to add to the trauma. He approaches her again and her stature doesn't change. Her good eye is trained on him, sniper locked and following his every movement. The alien iris is slowly becoming customary and he sits in a chair to her right offering her the pad. "It just makes you look like you have no lips."

"Maybe I don't"

He's starting to lose her. The cadence of her voice is fading, lending itself to the weakness and the pain he knows is excruciating. He remembers after she got shot, she could barely move, barely breath without experiencing pain. But she never gave up. Sarge said she was apologizing. It's a natural response, he doesn't know why or why Jules is starting to, but he's not letting her. It's not because of his belief that she's perfect, it's his knowledge that in these situations, there's only one person to blame.

"You have lips Jules, they're just kind of—" What? Picasso painted into the rest of her face. Scared and hiding? He bounces his arm in the air so she'll take the pad, but she doesn't budge. Doesn't move. Doesn't even blink or twitch her eye.

"I can't reach my lips, Sam." It comes out as breathless and he thinks that's partly his fault because he forgot about her injuries. Too preoccupied with the blood. He's had her blood on his hands before. Felt the blood seep through his fingers like thick, sticky molasses as life drained from her body. Since then, he's been preoccupied with it.

"Oh." The pad is starting to turn cold in his hand. Permanently wetting his thumb and forefinger and he remembers her blood filling his fingerprints. His mouth moves without forethought, or maybe it moves in routine because it's a hospital, it's Jules, she's hurt, he's guilty and in love. "Can I do it for you?"

Silence. While recovering from the gunshot her mobility started in the negatives. She never asked for anything. Painfully grasped for anything within reach while he sat right next to her. Finally he started asking if he could do things for her. She liked that better than being asked if she wanted him to do it, because the answer would always be no.

"Yeah, I guess." Hesitancy. Her left hand fingers bunch the blanket and eye darts up, over and away. As he leans forward she quickly adds, "Just remember—"

"I know what happened." His voice is harsh. He doesn't need her to say it. Doesn't want her to say it. Never wants her to say it. If she says it, he thinks the small thread of his sanity might snap.

Eye darts back, squints at his eagerness and interruption. "I was going to say my face is sensitive."

"Oh. Yeah. I'll be—" Gentle? Quick? He needs a word that can't be translated into a double entendre or quite possibly a phrase the guy said to her while he held her down.

"After everything you're still interrupting me." It was a fight they had. A fight they had frequently near the end. She would bring up returning to Team One and he would interrupt her dreams with anything he could think of. It happened weekly, then daily, then almost hourly until she just cut him off for a week. And then broke him off.

He exhales harshly. So close to her. He can see where her bruises fade into normal Jules skin. Smell the sweat and blood on her, the air around her tastes briny. See the anguish disguised behind a single functional eye. "I just didn't want you to be afraid of me." He dabs lightly at her skin, watches the transfer of blood to cotton. Waits to see if she flinches in pain. Her face remains stoic. "Because of what happened."

"Sam." Her breath is light, and hot on his fingers, his palm. Memories of the way her breath felt on his cheek, in his ear, on the side of his neck, on his bare chest, his stomach. He flips the pad and dabs with the other side. The first completely blotted with red, dyed with paint, exploded with pen ink. "You didn't do this."

The pad gathers up the remnants of crusted blood at the edge of her upper lip. He remembers kissing those lips. A hundred times. A thousand times. Licking at those lips. Sucking on them until they bruised. Crying until those lips pressed into some part of his face, his temple, his cheek, his chin. His thumb travels lightly over the cracked ridges, clearing them of any curdled blood. She allows it, but when his thumb tip lingers for a few seconds she turns her head away. Lips pressing together despite the pain, eyes closing modestly. She breaks contact.

He clears his throat, standing to throw the pad into the garbage can. He palms it, concealing the evidence of her injury; she can't know how hurt she really is. While his back is to her, the door screeches open, a horrible wailing sound of the rubber fighting against the floor. He jumps.

A doctor's now in the room. He's probably mid-thirties, red hair, tall as hell. His attention is buried in Jules' file, but that's not what has him worried. Her demeanor has completely changed. Her football lip is rolling against her newly cleansed upper lip. Along with her whole body shifting. He can't imagine the pain it causes.

Red eye catches his and in a silent plea accentuated by a drooping eyebrow. In less than three long strides he reclaims his position at her side. Stands tall as a nonverbal form of protection. Her legs pump under the blankets to create momentum to propel her away from this doctor. He doesn't know if he's allowed to comfort her, supposed to comfort her. If the doctor has done her harm, but he'll find out and deal with it from there.

"Are you her doctor?"

"Hmm?" Pale, colorless eyes dart up from low set maroon brows. Spine rolls itself out and his voice adopts a superior tone. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Her friend." His arm rests on the guardrail beside Jules. He uses his peripherals to watch her reaction to his closeness. There is none. Her eyes are trained the doctor, her body almost compacted into the corner of the gurney as he encroaches on the bed.

"Oh. Another friend." The doctor's tone is sardonic. It's mocking and holds a sharp spitefulness. It's completely out of place for this hospital let alone this room. He wonders if this doctor knows what happened to Jules, the full extent of what happened.

The comment is ignored for the moment until a more concrete profile can be established on this 'doctor'. He keeps his body adjacent to Jules but never touches her. Remains tall to let her know he's present. Refuses to sit back and watch her suffer like he's done twice before. "Are you her doctor or not?"

The guy jabs a thick long finger to the indent between his long, coarse eyebrows. "I didn't treat her if that's your question." The answer is an irritated sigh that escapes from the doctor's mouth in place of what he thinks are expletives. "Dr. Birch, a fourth year female medical student did at the behest of her other friend. Sadly before I can transfer her to the ICU I have to check the stitches and the cast."

Without another word the doctor pulls the opposite chair closer to Jules bed. Not noticing or caring that she's cowering. She's almost touching his left arm, he can see her physically tremble and he wonders the cause of it. The ratio of fear to pain. Her refusing drugs, which no one else seems to understand, has probably placed her in a periodic shock, but it doesn't mean there isn't pain. He's seen her face, her arm. He can't, doesn't want to, imagine what the rest of her body looks or feels like. "Can't someone else do it?"

"No." The doctor's voice is strict, but he stops his advances towards her. "Not only was she my case to begin with, but I'm the attending. I'd have to sign off regardless."

The doctor's hand creeps forward to touch her face, apparently intent on tilting up her head so he can examine the Frankenstein stitches piercing her plump lower lip. Part of him thinks about holding her hand and telling her he's here, he's present and he won't let this guy do anything to her. That if she wants to get signed out tonight, this idiot's going to have to investigate the abstract mess the medical student made of her lip.

But then she lets out a noise. A noise he never wants to hear her make again in her lifetime or his. A noise he assumes she made a lot during it. A weak, strangled, terrified gasp from a carnal place in her throat. Maybe it's for the promise of the pain the doctor's fingertips crushing against her marbled jaw line would bring. Maybe it's because she's that afraid of this guy.

So he does hits the doctor's hand right out of the air. After she creates that sound, he's clear for firing like he's back in Afghanistan. The harsh skin on skin contact echoes through the relatively noiseless room. She flinches maybe from the swiftness of the attack, or the familiarity of the sound, or because it happened too close to her face. He hates that he had a part in causing her to recoil. He hates this doctor more for it. "Do you even understand what just happened to her?"

"Listen," the doctor's voice grows caustic. His eyes rotate from jittering with rage and staring at him, to staring down at the red impact mark growing on the top of his right hand. "I don't know who you think you are, 'Friend' but—"

"No you listen. I don't know what your problem is, or where the hell your compassion is." He tries not to puff out his chest, but it just happens naturally. Doesn't look at Jules. Doesn't want to see if she approves or scoffs at his reaction to this idiot. With Jules he always had a tendency to overreact. Bar visits stopped after their second or third date because of other guys. "But if you don't start treating her with more respect I'll make it my life's work to make sure your medical license is revoked."

Stares at him for another moment, then at Jules. Calmly in a reserved tone leaking through his gritting teeth he questions, "May I speak to you outside for a moment?"

"I would love to talk to you outside." He yells at the doctor's back as the man is already retreating through the door. It wails across the ground as he almost rips it off its hinges.

In the stillness, the sink drips periodically almost to a set rhythm. He can hear Jules' labored breathing from only inches away. Her poor chest trying to complete repetitions in submissive actions causing her inconceivable amounts of pain. And she won't take the drugs. He knows she won't take the drugs because she wants to leave this place. She can't if she's attached to an IV drip. Can't easily escape through an open window with wadded together bed sheets. It was a concrete plan of hers last time.

He rubs a hand over his eyes, it carries the slickness of a rage provoked sweat to his forehead and then into his hair. He turns to Jules, finally able to communicate with her directly about what he just did despite him having no tangible stake in this situation. "I'm going to go talk to this guy in the hallway. He's probably going to have to check your lip and arm, but he'll do it with more respect."

He expects a verbal reciprocation. Expects her to yell at him, tell him she doesn't need him for shit. Tell him she can and will take care of herself because that's how she's always done it. Jules was born an independent entity. Grew up a single soul. No one to rely on and the times she did it only resulted in flayed expectations, emotions and skin.

Instead her fingers curl up into his hand resting against the guardrail. It's a gesture of gratitude. A gesture of sincerity. Maybe she just doesn't want him to go. Maybe she's afraid to be left alone. Maybe she doesn't want him to confront this doctor because she knows how he can get and it's dangerous. Maybe she thinks she isn't worth it and that's bullshit.

He gives her frail hand a light squeeze, tries not to think of the action as tender, as sentimental. Wants to keep holding her hand, press it to his cheek. Remembers her fingers being stronger, not jagged and cold. Playing with them in the twilight of early morning after a long shift. How they used to tickle against his chest, twitch when she was in a deep sleep. Tap at the end of his nose if he was in the middle of a particularly serious conversation and needed to be wrangled.

Against all the organic matter in his body he releases her hand. Instantly feels void and ill. "I'll be back in a few minutes. I promise, Jules." She nods, still sort of folded into the corner of the gurney. Watches him go with a single red eye.

The doctor is waiting in hallway. Arms crossed, hands file-less. They stand far enough away from the door that Jules shouldn't be able to hear their conversation. Nurses, doctors and other ER personnel scurry around them, unaware or uncaring of what is happening.

"Never talk to me like that in front of a patient."

"Never treat her like that again."

"She sure has a lot of 'friends'," The doctor laughs with condescension. It comes as a small burst out of the side of his mouth. His eyes roll back and the whole combination gives him a demonic appearance.

"Excuse me?" For her, he tries to control it. The rage, the snap judgments, the undying guilt. Hopes this guy means something different than he's implying. Hopes he just chose very poor, very wrong words.

The doctor leans in closer, keeping his voice low. "I don't think you know what really happened."

He doesn't say a single word. Doesn't want the guy to elaborate. Doesn't want to know. Just wants to get Jules out of this place because it's harmful. He gets it now.

"That cop who interviewed her said the guy who raped her used to date her. Really, can you forcefully take something you've already had?"

He doesn't even fully comprehend the horror of the words before his fist is buried in the doctor's serrated eye socket. Mind attempts to delete all information he's just received, but it comes flooding back to him while the doctor is reeling, clamping a hand over his eye. The doctor regains his precarious footing, hand still cupping a swollen left eye. He looks like he might speak, might call for security.

Maybe he did it because the doctor's insinuating Jules is loose, a slut because she keeps male friends, he's actually been hinting at it the entire night. Maybe because the doctor is blaming what happened to Jules on her, justifying what that guy did to her. Maybe because it's assholes like him who make Jules feel apologetic and half the person she was. Maybe it's just because the doctor said that word. The word he never wants to hear again.

Hits the doctor in the face, this time knuckles crunch against the mount of a cheekbone. And then again in the nose. A fountain, ribbons of blood spurt from the doctor's nose, over his lips and he falls to the floor. Both hands block his face and his body withers into the fetal position.

"You think she wanted this? Wanted to have that done to her, to her face, her body? Look like that? Deal with that pain? Feel like that?" He bends his knees, his face inches from the doctor's, still cradled in his hands. "She didn't. I know because I loved her. I love her. She never looked like that." He juts a finger to the looming door, well aware the doctor isn't watching where he's pointing too, doesn't care anyways. Standing, he does a quick pace in a half circle. Knows people in the ER have actually noticed what's happening between them now. Knows what's immanent. "What happened to her wasn't sex, or intimacy, or love. That was about power and violence."

A security guard charges at him from the side. Rams him back into the wall. His body flips around. Forces his face against the smooth, sticky, puce colored surface. Yanks his arms behind his back. Pretty good for only being a step above a Rent-A-Cop. Shock-faced nurses with hands hovering over their gaping maws from his apparent random act of violence watch as he's directed towards the exit.

Then he remembers Jules. She asked for him. Wanted him to break her out of here. Didn't want the drugs so she didn't have to stay. Endured the pain so she could go home. Didn't want him to do the one-on-one in the hallway with the asshole of a doctor for a reason. She knew. He promised her he'd be back in a few minutes. He promised her and now he's handcuffed being led out by a guy who couldn't even make it onto the actual police force.

He wrenches his arms against the security guards. "Let me explain to—"

"Shut up."

"Please just let me—"

He's shoved out, on display. Paraded by the bowling ball faced nurses who whisper wind secrets of gossip about the attack to each other. By triage and to the emergency room waiting area where only Wordy remains. Apparently all the other guys had better things to do.

Wordy rips his face away from his clamped hands. Their eyes meet for only a brief moment and his teammate's appearance is one of overall concern although he keeps his older, stern set face. He wants to tell Wordy what the doctor said, how he treated Jules, but he won't. To save her the discomfort of hearing what a rare subclass of human beings thinks, he won't. He'll keep this to himself and just say the rage is how he deals with this type of situation. He'll keep quiet and cooperate with whatever the police station or wherever he's going wants because the more he does what they want, the sooner he gets out.

* * *

><p>The screen door to the kitchen screeches with thirty years of pleading for oil. Bangs shut behind him. Doesn't attempt to hide his entry into the house. The Boss said to take it easy. To get some rest and they would all see Jules tomorrow. Had to hush his sarcastic additives. Really? can we really? You promise? In one night he's lost his demeanor. Rub the magic lamp and release all thirty plus years of finely preserved rage like his dad keeps bottling brackish wine in the basement.<p>

The secondary door slams behind him and immediately the light flicks on in the carpeted hallway so travelled it's almost worn down to linoleum flooring. His mother. His mom, in her big puffy 1980s couch cushion housecoat with a red rose pattern, mother goose waddles towards him. Pokey arms threading the belt around her round form.

"Mikey. It's late. You're not drinking again?" She doesn't like it when he's drunk. Stopped him from underage drinking all during high school even though he grew up in an Italian household, with a lot of Italian uncles who would encourage 'just one drink, Mikey' to see him get hit with a rolling pin. When the Team One's bingeing started ten days ago she disapproved and in the politest way, from a son to a mother, he basically told her to shove it.

"Something happened, Ma." He picks at his temple. Fingers against his head sound like fingers on a spinning record. He's back at the high school semi-formal scratching up hip hop albums. Chooses to do so with his injured hand, which of course is a mistake.

"Mikey, your hand." Mother talons clamp around bandaged and torn skin. Drags him, fighting and wrenching like a trout over to the table. He has flashbacks of childhood. Purposely hurting himself to get her to change the dinner menu because his stupid sister was always on some version of the Atkins. "You said you weren't on duty tonight."

"I wasn't. Something—" He sighs. Allows his hand relax against the tacky surface of a kitchen table old enough to recognize Mussolini as its one true leader. Thinks of the right way to tell his mom. They've met once before. His mom liked Jules, said she had a tough spirit. "Remember my friend Jules?"

"Julianna?"

Of course. It's always full names with this woman. Doesn't like pet names. Doesn't like it when people use pet names. Doesn't like it when they have nicknames. "Yeah. She got hurt. Someone hurt her tonight."

"No." Her plump hand covers her mouth for a second. When it falters she questions, "Did they get him?"

It's like she knows already. It's just something women have to put up with. His mom is always telling him women are good at bouncing back. They get forced into marriages, but they bounce back. They get abused and raped, but they bounce back. They juggle kids, marriage, a job and a shred of a personal life and they bounce back. He's looking at his mom highlighted by the QEW hallway light. She married his dad, left her own country, popped out two kids, spent forty years taking care of everyone, got breast cancer, went through the medical motions, still kept up with the cleaning and the cooking while a disease consumed her body, went into complete remission because she had too much stuff to do. She bounced back while she was in mid-fall.

It's not how it should be, but somehow they manage it. And it's why crazy guys, like the asshole who hurt Jules, come into fruition. They crack under the pressure of being less powerful. They're just jealous of what women can do. And they always bounce back. Jules bounces back too quickly. Is constantly in danger, in pain, life threatened and blows it off, like last summer.

In the summertime cops retire like the heat, in waves. In bursts because they realize it's the perfect time to take a well planned jaunt around the world. Ginger beer in an inner tube off the coast of Ocho Rios perfect. A bunch of spikes perforating a men's size fourteen SRU issued police shoe amazing. It was the second time that week they were herded into some middle class restaurant with buffet style food to listen to some old guy ramble on about how shooting people in the knees has been a rewarding life choice.

The retiree that night was Milton 'Fitzie' Fitzgerald. Fitzie was the cocky Team Leader of the arrogant Team Two bastards. Despite the turnout, it was a well known fact that no one actually liked Fitzie. The rumors said the Boss had denied him a position on Team One at least twice. Team Two was not hiding their enthusiasm at finally seeing gray-haired Fitzie hang up his bulletproof vest for the last time. Probably due to binge drinking. Team Two is still the worst.

The evening was coming to an end; the wall mounted speakers no longer spit feedback like elderly people tend to discharge half masticated food while in mid conversation. Fitzie pretended people actually cared what he said was important as he schmoozed for a small crowd of two. If it weren't for the free booze the precinct graciously donated, Fitzie might have figured out how much everyone hated him. Amazingly, the mixture of hard, free alcohol and pure malevolence towards the dear retiree did not result in disorder.

The Boss, Ed and Wordy mingled with the older crowd, probably talking about shared interests in their inevitable and ever encroaching retirements and then immanent deaths. Jules had excused herself assumingly to do womanly things, and Sam of course arrived late and was taking his first run at the buffet. He and Lew sat at their table built for eight, seated seven, currently employed only two. They talked about everything just as they always did. Girls, music, the news that morning, how his mom was doing, how Lew's mom still got hit on, how they should plan a trip, how much they hated Fitzie. Apparently Lew once held a door for Fitzie and the man muttered a racial slur. It was like being in perpetual high school, except he was finally at the three-quarter empty cool table.

Then Sam returned, it was still his first week and his infinite jokes about all the parties were unappreciated. He and Lew were trying to curve the harsh edges the older crowd and Jules left on the rookie. He didn't know why Jules was acting with such malice, particularly because he'd seen the way she responded to his own joining of the team, heard from Lew how she treated him. Guessed her friendly neighbor attitude was just wearing thin over the years.

"You planning on feeding the neighbors, Man?" Lew nodded, half interested in Sam's plate piled high with all the delicacies a middle class buffet style restaurant had to offer. Ribs, wings, potato skins, deviled eggs, breaded mushrooms and—

A bit dramatically, he leaned forward in his chair, pushed it back a little with the quick movement of his legs and almost took out a waiter who gave him a snarky expression of a hooked nostril and flat lining mouth. "You have to put those things back."

Those things were three jumbo, unbreaded shrimp. Curled, ringed, hooked like they were pulling at the inside the waiter's nostril. White and pink spiraled flesh jiggled as Sam spun his plate with an inquisitive glance, wondering what exactly he had taken that had not been up for grabs. A year later and he would still love to answer this question for Sam. "The shrimp?"

Lew's head cranked around from where he was checking out a waitress who had been sending him the bedroom eyes all night long. Had the night gone better Lew would have ended up not only with her number, but also with her secured in the front seat of his SUV on the way home. Lew was supposed to be his ride home, but Jules would offer once she saw the erotic exchange of blinks and winks. The waitress probably would've ended up being the girl they abandoned at the Christmas Party this year if it had just been an ordinary night.

His best friend noticed the three contraband crustaceans on Sam's plate and copied his freaked out position. Large hands flat on the edge of the table. "You got shrimp? Never get the shrimp."

"Why?" Sam chuckled, cheeks round with food packed in the side of them. Still tanned from Afghanistan or wherever he came in from. He picked up a shrimp by the crimped tail. Dangled it mockingly, not understanding the danger. "Is it rotten?"

Neither of them really knew what to say. Sam, well he was still a rookie at that point, still not privileged to most information. Especially that concerning the personal matters of team members. Also he really didn't think Sam would be sticking around. Before an agreement on just how much they should be divulging could be reached, Jules approached in his peripherals.

Her high heel shoes clicked across the wooden floors of the restaurant's banquet room. She wore a black dress that sort of fanned out at her knees. He remembers so well because that dress got ruined, just like her white one. Wonders if she gets a special budget just for clothing they've destroyed over the years. She reclaimed her spot between Lew and himself, just like in every Christmas photo since the beginning of time. Perpetual high school.

Her face gave a twitch at the amount of food Sam shoveled in, but then she craned her head around his shoulders. "Where are the rest of the guys?"

"Bored with us already?" His voice wavered, squeaked like the springs in his kitchen door that craved attention and oil.

Lew chuckled, his hand consumed the glass of rum before him, his mouth consumed the liquid within. "They went to go mingle."

"Oh, well what did I miss?"

He caught Lew's attention. Like waving down a Boeing 747 with a burning engine. Were they really just going to ignore the keg of gasoline Sam brought to the table and the Olympic torch seated between them? Lew's eyes went slack, he shook his head. They both thought the same thing. Didn't want Jules to freak out. Didn't want her to become embarrassed. Didn't want her to be defined for the rest of her life by that time she lost her shit because Sam ate three shrimp.

But then the asshole went and opened his mouth, "Well the guys exploded because I brought shrimp and—" Of course every single one of his pompous words was accentuated by shake of the hand that held a shrimp loosely between a thumb and forefinger as he sat almost directly across from her. A five-year-old could predict the outcome.

Slimy shrimp used a viscous fluid and an unforeseen prowess of physics to somersault through the air and landed directly on Jules' lap, on the thin fabric of her dress which almost immediately began to gobble up shrimp juice. All three of them remained completely still for almost a full minute, probably looked something like those 'see no evil' monkey statues. Sam snort laughed from the other side of the table, "I didn't wreck your dress did I?" Perpetual high school.

Then the bell rang and it was time to get to class. He and Lew snapped into motion. Jules remained still; arms flexed tightly, hands fisted at her side, legs slightly crossed at her ankles. An almost cheetah patterned blush swept onto her arms like the effects from a light show. In a very low voice, panic camouflaged as stern irate, she dictated, "My purse."

Lew snatched her purse lolling from the back of her chair where it remained while she took her brief sojourn. They were entreated with the task of watching it for her. Lew was plagued with the mission of trying to find an Epipen in a haystack. Her face slowly began to engorge, cheekbones became shy. He was going to ask permission to remove the shrimp. Thigh area is close to naughty touching but the swelling sort of trumped the need. His hand used bomb wire precision to extract the offending shellfish without pressing its juices further into the point of impact. It was placed into a wineglass, a napkin placed on top of it.

"What's going on?" Sam now held their earlier stance, a little pushed away from his chair, hands clawing the table. He was slowly starting to realize that something was happening to Jules. Probably because her skin adopted a pattern of hives and a sleek reflecting sheen. At least she was still breathing fine. But they give Sam a gun everyday and it scares him.

"I can't find it." He stared at Lew, wanted to slap his friend in the back of the head. That was only going to make her panic more. Jules isn't an outside panicker. She panics where no one can see and because of it soon her heart was going to shut down and her airway would close.

"Go get Sarge."

Lew didn't respond. No refreshing chuckle or nod, just sprinted from the table off into the dwindling people still in the banquet room of a middle class restaurant. None had noticed his friend was having an allergic reaction. Lew's chair teetered.

"Jules, did it soak through?" He meant the shrimp and its fluids through her dress. Didn't think to put together her fingers touching shrimpy liquid would still be skin to allergen contact.

She nodded, rocked back and forth on the chair now attempted to control her breathing through her nose.

"You need to wipe it up." He handed her a napkin. Forest green. Raised edges. Used for special occasions only.

"What's going on?" Sam questioned again. Still unmoved from his spot, either because he didn't want to disrupt the situation, or because he already knew he was in hip deep in shit for what he'd done.

"This isn't right?" She stared at the chandelier above the table, right hand crossed over to left arm and gingerly scratched as she contemplated the light fixture. Eyes thin as knowledge scrolled through her head.

"Jules, you need to take care of it." He nudged the napkin again at her arm, her bicep, her hand. Felt like a rescue dog in the Rockies.

She turned her head towards him, tilted it slightly and questioned, "What did you get for Number 6? Because I keep getting -23 but the book says it's 5."

"What?"Remembered thinking just how fucked they were at that moment. Just how messed up her mind was from a little shellfish extract just because an asshole needed to eat three shrimp. He hadn't eaten shrimp in two and a half years and he was fine with it.

"What is she—"

"Shut the fuck up, Sam." He didn't turn to watch the reaction of his not-by-choice-teammate. It wasn't supposed to be shocking coming from friendly, quiet, comical Spike who's good for a borrowed dollar and laugh. It wasn't about putting Sam in his place or establishing dominance, or anything even remotely masculine. He was dealing with Jules, a fuse Sam had lit and run. A person Sam had friendly fired upon.

"I need to get this right." She answered herself with a stern nod, resolved to work on an imaginary math problem instead of wiping away the venom from her leg. Perpetual high school.

So he resolved to do it. It wasn't that high up. Maybe the half point of her thigh. He felt horrible about it then. She told him it probably saved her life. Stopped her eyelids from swelling closed along with her throat. He feels worse about it now under the circumstances. Feels like shit.

He didn't fold her dress up. It wasn't like that. He literally only wanted to wipe any remainder of shrimp from her soluble skin. He did. Quarter folded the forest green napkin and placed it over the damp area. Kept the dress from leaking more toxins. When he retracted his hand from just under the edge of her dress with the utmost of care and no thought to Kindergarten timeouts for the exact same circumstances, the back of his right hand grazed her smooth thigh. He likes to think he didn't lose track of the situation.

"Spike, what the hell is going on?" The Boss appeared behind him just as he reclaimed his hand. Ed and Wordy stood behind their boss like some sort of abstract entourage. No one saw it. Well, Sam did, was actually fuming from across the table all red-faced. Later he delicately explained to Jules how a restaurant napkin ended up on her thigh. Because it meant nothing. Means nothing. He doesn't think of it.

Sarge crouched before Jules who still spewed random high school memories. She was in the cafeteria. Apparently some girl named Kayla was a whore. Lew retrieved her purse and Sarge found the Epipen within seconds. This is not the first time shrimp have accosted Jules while on duty and it peaked his interest. He's never asked her about it, all he knows is that after a few weeks on the team Sarge came up to him and vetoed all seafood for no reason. Lew filled him in on the rest.

"Well, Sam threw a shrimp at her."

"Fuck that. You guys didn't even—"

"Eddy?"

Ed groaned, pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and fore finger. "Yeah, let's go for a walk." Clamped a hand on Sam's shoulders, directed him away from the table and that's when the relief started. He wishes Ed would've walked him back to the airport, put him on a plane, and sent him back to the Middle East.

"I'll go get water." Wordy excused himself. Took the tainted shrimp glass and Sam's plate. Doesn't do well when woman are hurt. He doesn't remember if he knew about Wordy's wife at that point. Thinks he must have, but still it didn't make sense to him. The flight technique when the abuse rested so close to loved ones.

"Jules?" The Boss held her leopard hand, ballooned and irritated.

"Why does he always do that?" She questioned, fingers ticked within the Boss's.

"He just really wanted to be a waiter, but he got stuck in this SRU gig." He answered, thought she was talking about Wordy. She'd known him longer, was bound to have noticed. No reason to make a mountain out of a molehill now.

The Boss sighed, head slightly unhinged from his neck. The noise was directed at him. Be silent. Lew shook his head, regained his character calmness.

"Jules, I need to—"

"He always hits me."

It's the longest, most awkward pause he has ever experienced. Lived through his parents as they told him his mother had breast cancer. Lived through the drive back to the SRU after Lew exploded. This was longer. Lew kind of covered his mouth with a large hand. Not a gesture of shock, more to hide emotions. He felt the pressure of his teeth grind against each other in his mouth, was sure there were sparks. They both listened to the words echo in their brains. They only stopped two weeks ago for Lew. The echoes still exist at this moment for him. No amount of drinking assuages them. The Boss's body slumped, like an invisible entity hit him in the back with a lead pipe. And Jules was so indifferent to it all, the declaration so common, ordinary, everyday.

"Jules."

"No matter what I do, he always hits me." After her statement she gasped in a breath because the allergen was finally hitting her respiratory system. In a swift movement, in comics the reflex drawn by the recurrences of the arched lines behind speeding superheroes, the Boss jammed the pen into her thigh. She let out a silent scream, not quite as pronounced as his when Lew blew. Her round hand squeezed against the Boss's shoulder. The material bunched in her hand and she sighed three times before relaxing back in the chair.

Fifteen minutes later she reclined in her chair, thrown there like a rag doll. Lew's long fingers pressed into her wrist to monitor her pulse. "It's a little jumpy, but I have that effect on women."

She laughed; hit him in the chest lazily with the back of her hand. He grinned. Ed returned without Sam. It was nice. Jules sipped on the water Wordy brought her after all the medical drama was over. The restaurant was still none the wiser. He held one of her high heeled shoes which tumbled off during the ordeal.

"How the hell do you wear these?"

"Mmm." She pulled the straw away from her mouth. Lew took the glass from her and set it on the table. It's how they treated her for the next two days, overly sweet and accommodating, until she noticed and called bullshit. They also forced the self defense part of the workout on her. When she asked why, they did the realistic equivalent to shoving their hands in their pockets and whistling while kicking at nonexistent rocks on the ground of the workout room. It's why he doesn't mind when she hits him during training. "It's a lost art. It's also a physical sign of over two thousand years of oppression."

Lew chuckled and checked her pulse again. A few feet away in an archway the older guys were having a conference, probably on how to deal with shrimp-flinger Sam. He had his fingers crossed for a suspension. He doesn't even know if Sam has ever apologized to her.

"You shouldn't wear these." He handed her back the shoe, welded the heel like it was a foreign weapon. "It's probably bad for—something."

She grinned at him. Still not fully mobile or completely unswollen, but getting there. "That's why I like you Spike. You get it." To this day he doesn't know what it is that he got, but he's beyond flattered she likes him because of it.

The Boss drove her home in her jeep. He tailed with the Boss's car. Lew tailed in his SUV. It was like a convoy and Jules' neighbors did not appreciate it. None of them have ever held a conversation concerning what Jules talked about while delusional. He likes to think that they all played it off the same way. Everything she said was fake, a constructed reality based in her confusion state on a movie she's seen or book she'd recently read. None of it happened and she really had a nice happy childhood on a farm in Medicine Hat with a sheepdog, a loving father and a brood of smelly brothers. But she's never talked about them. He's never talked to her about what she said.

"She's a strong girl." His mom rustles his hair and gestures to the hallway. "She'll bounce back."

Jules has gone through at least one semi-lethal allergic reaction and came to work the next day. She's the only member of the SRU to have been shot on active duty and return to active duty four months later. Now after this, she's just going to bounce back harder. Rudimentary physics dictates she should fall harder next time. Next time could be fatal.

"That's the thing mom." Doesn't budge from the table. Talks into his hand. It smells like bathroom soap and hand sanitizer. "There's going to be a next time. People, they don't last. They burn out."

"Mikey, God only gives you what you can handle."

"Well I can't handle this shit, Ma. Not anymore. Maybe God should stop coming after my friends like a freaking sociopathic kid with a magnifying glass." He doesn't know how he ended up profiling God or pissing off his mom to the point where she's swearing at him in Italian.

He leaves his mom in her sofa robe in the kitchen. Stomps down the lightly carpeted hallway and listens to the cough his father has procured from somewhere in the last week. He slowly unties his dress shoes. Unites them under the foot of his bed. He thinks of Lew. He thinks of Jules. How he was afraid the allergic reaction would forever define her, then the gun shot, now the rape.

Thinks of Lew and Jules as they were and are simultaneously. Schrödinger's cat. Somewhere in time there's Lew where he's both alive and dead. There's the time where he can communicate with his best friend. Tell him he can't watch a Timmy's commercial without remembering Lew liked a tea and a Dutchie instead of a coffee and any other doughnut like the rest of the human race. Tell Lew the ginger beer wasn't so bad, and he was only playing up the rottenness of it because he badmouthed his mom's meatballs earlier that month. Tell Lew how now when he gets married, if he gets married, the position of best man will be meaningless.

Maybe there's a superposition of states for Jules. One where she isn't defined by random acts of violence done onto her. One where she isn't defined by a relationship with Sam that she happened to take the brunt for. He overheard Ed and the Boss talking one day. Ed wanted to keep Donna on the team just for that reason. Completely forgot that a relationship takes two people, that one of them was here way before the other, and that one of them was shot on duty. One where she isn't expected to do all and be all without cracking at least once. He's cracked more than her. She's seen him crack more than her in the same number of years. One where she lets them help her more. Either he's a shitty friend or she has trust issues stemming from a happy farm in Medicine Hat with a shaggy sheepdog. One where she isn't expected to immediately bounce back once she hits the ground.

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter (Has a Hard M-rating)- Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Plus something for the SamJules fans and the Sam/Jules haters because I'm all embracing.  
><em>


	6. Humming Hymning Choir Clear

_A/N:Hey guys, long time no update.  
>The following is a longer long ass author's note: This chapter is even more massive than the last. So take it with ease. And I only mentioned the massiveness of the last chapter because when I was writing Domino Theory a few people complained about the length. I thought I'd be proactive and nip it in the bud before there were any moans.<br>Clean up (AKA answering random review inquiries):  
>-There are different types of love. So you tell me if Spike is in love with Jules. Was he in love with Lew?<br>-As to Jules injuries, none of them are life threatening and in doing extensive research and asking mama Shiggity an ex-nurse, rape victims are only held in the hospital if their injuries are life threatening or extensive enough to need more treatment. Of course this is not a first hand account so it may be false.  
>-Yes that was Lexus with Ed.<br>-Just a few writing classes under my belt. Mostly taught myself.  
>-Never seen G.I. Jane. Not for movies or TV or anything really.<br>Stuff about this chapter: It is_ **M-RATED FOR M-RATED SHENANIGANS.** _I realize the whole story is but some people just aren't desensitized yet so again for them_ **M-RATED THINGS AND THE LIKE WILL HAPPEN IN THIS CHAPTER**. _You'd think that would do it, but someone will still PM me and complain so, once more with feeling as Paula Deen _**M-RATED SHIT HAPPENS Y'ALL.**  
><em>Also the majority of it might be hard to understand. Different POVs and mindsets equals differential styles which equals sometimes hard to understand. <strong>As always feel free to PM me with questions about anything<strong>.  
>Lastly thank you to those who read religiously and reviewed. Thanks to those who favorited and alerted. Thanks to everyone who thinks I'm doing a good job. The subject matter is still nostril flaring in some, so I appreciate your loud or quiet support as always. <em>**  
><strong>

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 6

Humming Hymning Choir Clear

"I can't believe you hit it."

"I didn't hit anything."

Globes of light arc in angles. Cut across his thighs. Slice through the seemingly clean leather seats. Crash at ninety degrees into and up the side of the backdoor. Escape through the opposite window before another globe starts on the same ingrained journey.

With a stark laugh, he hides his mouth into the palm of his hand. Eyes flash out the window to the empty streets. The cab slows to a stop at a red light, and this globe rests in the tongue of the seat between them. Balances on the tip. A great bar trick. Too many frothy ones over the lips. "I can smell it on your breath."

The radio hisses sparks of static and the cabby turns the station. Music with a distinctly carnal beat plays at a diminished level. Ed rests his forehead into his hand, fingers simultaneously working the tense muscles at both of his temples. "I needed a drink okay? So sue me."

Light flicks green and the cab speeds off. Globes continue their preset passage. Their lemming crossing, hold hands and dive over the cliff. "You don't think it was a little inappropriate to just leave?"

"Did you give Greg or Spike shit for leaving?" Eyes wrenched shut. It's been a long night, but those tears might be the side effect of whiskey. More whiskey than needed because Ed's usually edginess is enhanced. He's not inebriated, maybe two drinks away from being docile drunk, more irritable and dangerous now.

"Greg and Spike needed to leave." Thinks about them. How this Team was a family, is a family slowly falling apart because vital mechanisms are being stripped for petty cash. The impact of Lew's death is fresh, shrouds them like the smell of chlorine lingers on skin when coming out of a public swimming pool. Spike's loss of his best friend, and now the defilement of his teammate. Sarge's inability to protect anyone crashing like the rising tide.

"You know, I'm getting so tired of this coddling bullshit. We just let everyone do whatever the hell they want and look what—"

In his front coat pocket, his phone vibrates. His internal clock reminds him of the time, and he figures it's Sarge updating him. He doesn't want to know. It's horrible and makes his innards shrink down to the size of a corn kernel. He can't handle it. Can't help but think of Shelly. How she hobbled, wobbled, and grew different colors as her personality leaked away through manmade holes. She flinched at movements, sudden and slow, at sounds, at flashes on the TV. Fed off emotions instead of food, emotions someone else was charging to her. Guilt, shame, fear.

Ignores Ed's nostril flare and shoulder shuffle as he answers his cell.

"Hey Kev."

It's her. He's trying to remember how she is now. Safe at home in a cotton pajama set in their bedroom probably lying next to one of the girls. Blonde hair tumbling over her petit shoulders and eyebrows slanted a little in concern.

"I know it's one of your boys' nights out and there's no wives allowed, but it's getting late and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You guys can get kind of rowdy after a few." She chuckles nervously into the receiver.

He grins, eyes twitch, feel lost in moisture from unregistered emotions and strain. Turns away from Ed and glances out the window. They're about a block from the jail. She has absolutely no idea how rowdy they can get. "No Shel, I'm—I'm glad you called."

"Kev, are you okay?" Knows from a single stutter he's not himself.

"Something happened." Pauses and rubs at his eyes because there is wetness. Not sure from what, too tired to function, too awake to sleep. "Another something."

"Are you okay? The guys?"

"I can't—" Has to sit her down, explain to her what happened and how Jules left them fine and two hours later would never be the same again. Has to explain to her how he was in a group of men who passively let it happen. How he let it happen again. "I can't tell you on the phone."

"Okay?" It's drawn out, almost playful in concern.

"I'm okay, Shel. I'll be home in an hour. Two tops."

"I love you, Baby. Just come home safe okay?"

"I promise." The phone starts shaking in his hand as they pull up in front of the police station. The cab rests underneath a lamppost, light growing heavy in his lap. "I have to go now. I love you."

He ends the call before their conversation can evolve. Can't handle her voice anymore. It soothes him. Placates him. She's always been there for him. Been there almost his entire time on the force. He finds solace in returning to a house full of woman he loves more than life itself. Taking care of them and protecting them because he's seen what men can do. He doesn't deserve to be comforted right now. Not after everything.

He pays the cabby, lets him keep the tip because he doesn't want the money tainted by the occasion, to return to his wallet where pictures of Shelly and the girls rest for gloating purposes. The streetlight showers over him as he steps from the cab onto the curb, a full body's worth of equilibrium better than Ed, who is still walking, but slowly. Almost an underwater march. Boot heels slamming into the ground.

Climbs the few steps to where they all got their start. Well, almost all of them took their baby steps here. The gaping maw of the downtown precinct. While Ed struggles with the last slightly jagged, temporally crumbling concrete stair he's greeted by an old colleague pushing through the first set of doors. Than another. It's like a victory lap around the old pond, causes ripples in time. Doesn't mean a damn thing.

"Wordy?" An officer glances up from the monumental desk which puts Winnie's to pure shame. "Ed? What are you guys doing—Do you know what time it is?"

Ed opens his mouth to answer. Particles of whiskey burst and diffuse into the humid and ceiling fanned interior of the station. Placing a hand on his best friend's shoulder he shakes his head, hoping he can field this inquiry. "Lost and found. Think someone brought in somebody who's ours."

"Oh." Middle-aged cop nods once. He retaught them the emergency medical course last year. His prematurely salt and peppered hair bounces in thick curls. "Okay, do you know the charges?"

"Can do you better, know the name. Sam Braddock." Beside him Ed groans, shoe scuffs against the floor. Above them in the cathedral ceiling a fan seizes from its speed.

"Okay." Agile fingers cruise over the keyboard, following a few clicks of the mouse. "Yep we got him. He hit a doctor."

"What an asshole." Ed putters on the marbled lobby floors in circles like a fish with an injured fin. Does loose circles with his hand on his forehead while muttering expletives and unclear concepts.

"He's a cop. He's actually on our Team. Is there any way you could release him into our custody? He won't go back to the hospital or do anything like this again, we can promise you—"

"Let him stay." Ed stops his shuffle and glances up like he's had an epiphany before a statue of a Saint, which is really just blindfolded Themis.

"Ed."

"You said yourself, he's going to go crazy for this guy. So let him stay in prison. Then he's not our problem for a few hours." Shrugs and rubs at the back of his neck. Hint of a smile creeping at the corner of his mouth because he's actually pleased with this idea. "Who knows, maybe he'll cool off."

"It's going to take him more than one night to cool off." It's stated simply because it is simple. If they hadn't locked up Shelly's ex-husband, he would have murdered him. Would have murdered him without a second thought, would have made it last and the thought of it scares him. The thought of anyone touching her or the girls. The rage underlies like the flame on a burner of a gas stove.

"He'd be released at six this morning anyway." Emergency medical teacher informs him. Probably doesn't want to be responsible for the release paperwork.

"Ed, someone's got to be with her. She can't just—"

"You don't think Greg is going to go back there the first chance he gets?"

Catches the sarcasm in his voice. Wonders why he doesn't understand why Greg tries to protect her after what he, they did during her first week with them. The same reason Spike doesn't fully trust them because of an overload of pepper spray in riot gear. The same reason Lew preferred the younger crowd because of Rolie.

"Fine, but we're telling him in person." Shakes his head negating his choice because it's not fine. Knows if it was him in jail and Shelly in the hospital he'd be chewing at the bars trying to get out. Wonders if it's still like that for them. Has never been able to read Jules well, hasn't really gotten to know her at all in the seven years they've worked together.

Only once have they really connected on a visceral level. A ring outside of the Team One atmosphere. It was when he was on paternity leave after Lilly was born. Shelly was still recovering from the c-section and Maddy had fallen sick from her playgroup. He needed to ask Commander Holleran for some more time off. Another week, maybe two while his family adjusted.

Baby Lilly was ensconced in his arms, the only one in the family thriving as he struggled to keep things agreeable. It was hard, a vomiting toddler, an aching wife and a baby who woke every three hours to need something. Somehow he became her primary caregiver. He took care of Lilly more than her mother because Shelly needed to recover from the emergency scalpel diving into her abdomen. He and Lilly have always had a bond. He loves all his girls, but Lil and him just connect in a different way.

"Pete." Empty hand slapped the bare dispatch desk. He wanted to be demanding, let Winnie's off-shift replacement know just how desperate he was to talk to Holleran. How Ed had called him and in two minutes he had Lilly strapped into her seat and was on the highway. "Is Holleran here?"

"Yeah he's—I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to bring one of those up here."

He forced a laugh, bared teeth clenched in the front. Glanced down to his sleeping daughter and reclaimed his serenity for her sake. Was here for her sake. "Her mom's asleep; I really need to talk to Holleran."

"I think he's in the locker room."

Roadblock. There is no way past, present or future he would ever take any of his daughters into the locker room. He doesn't particularly care for it half the time. The language, both body and verbal. The guys lose half their brain cells on passing through the door.

"Pete, you don't think that—"

Caught his nod to napping Lilly and pushed away from the desk. "Whoa. Sorry Wordy. I mean we're friends and I like you, but—man, not that much."

"Yeah." Nodded eyes squinted a little in a recalibration of good old Pete. His hand adjusted the dress over his daughter's, plump, almost bow legs.

Turned to reexamine the lobby. Hoped to find someone he knew, someone he wouldn't mind leaving Lilly with for a few minutes. The locker room door burst open, ricocheted off the wall, and groaned closed again. Rolie sauntered by him, gym bag casually slung over his shoulder, while his thumbs mechanically twirled over a cell phone. Remembered Team One was called in because Ed had called.

"Rolie."

"Wordy?" Twisted away from the elevator and released his lip from between two front teeth, it blanched and reddened. "Came to show off your catch?"

Never really cared for Rolie. He used to be able to stand him, even understand him. But a few weeks after Jules transferred in, his fiancée cheated on him and left. Held a vendetta against the world from that moment on. An unbridled rage just underneath a calm lake surface. Like the sudden skip of a stone, his emotions flustered and blew in the draw of a breath.

"I actually need to talk to Holleran, you don't think you could—"

Rolie laughed at him, condescendingly. The kind of laughter that fills high school hallways. His hand actually touched his side; the force of humor gave him pain. "Wordy, it's the Friday starting Spring Break. I know you're not interested but the quality of ass at the bars is—"

"God, just go." Forgot about the slang. The uncouthness he wasn't raised on. For people who uphold the law, cops can run their mouths along with the worst thugs. It's a barely known fact. A fact which doesn't involve him because he had a caring mother. Has the perfect wife and three perfect daughters. Can't say anything without thinking of them so why would he?

Rolie chuckled and jumped into the elevator. Thumbs probably texting about the incident with a few extra expletives. He was near the brink, the break where he had to decide what was more important, being approved for more time, or finding someone to watch Lilly. Went to take a single step towards the locker room when he saw her.

She was securing the 'Jules' door. It was only her room at the time. No Donna. Before the drama of trying to integrate everyone. She had a black sheer shirt with a black top underneath. Luckily her hair was up.

"Jules." Called out to her and leapt across the lobby with a sleeping three-week-old in his arms.

"Hey Wordy. Aren't you suppo— Is this your new daughter?" Yanked her purse up on her shoulder. Didn't have the average woman's reaction to babies. The clasped hands and euphoric expression.

"Yeah, this is Lilly."

"And Shelly let you bring her here?"

"Actually I need to go into the locker room to talk to Holleran and I was wondering if—" Stopped and smiled down at Lilly. Sort of nudged her so Jules got the idea.

"Oh Wordy." Stepped back and hit the locker room door. Thought she might unlock it, dart inside and wait until he disappeared. "I don't think I'm the right person."

"Please. I wouldn't ask unless it was really important. I won't even be five minutes."

"I know Wordy, but I don't know anything about babies."

"Look, it's really simple." Held out his daughter whose eyelashes fluttered and lips smacked in her sleep. Jules flicked her lower lip out. With her eyes closed, she reluctantly accepted Lilly like she was getting passed a football. "Just keep her in the crook of your arm. Or if she wakes up and starts to squirm, use two hands. She likes to be patted on the back, so you could lean her on your shoulder."

"Just." She swiped blindly behind her to find the bench. Hand gripped the block exterior and she lowered her body slowly until she sat down. "Just be quick."

"I will and thank you, Jules."

Found Holleran in the matter of seconds and explained his situation at home. Begged for just one more week off so maybe Shelly could fully recover from her surgery and Maddy could get over her cold. Holleran nodded and took some notes, couldn't promise anything but said he'd look over the schedules and see if there wasn't room.

He had to have been less than ten minutes. Shook Holleran's hand and jogged out of the locker room to find Lew standing beside Jules. A tall, skinny kid they'd adopted from Guns and Gangs two months earlier. His gangly appearance was offset by his massive head of hair. He had the back of his palm pressed into his smirking mouth. Jules was wiping the back of her hand on her shirt.

"What happened?"

Lew slapped his free hand onto his back. The other still trying to muffle the chuckles Jules didn't find so amusing. "Your daughter threw up on her."

And Lilly sat in her arms. Eyes shut and content. Lips still smacked. Arms shuffled in sleep. Jules' black shirt had a huge, chunky white stain which ran from the shoulder down to her chest.

"I'm so sorry." He didn't think it was funny. Didn't want her to be upset. Didn't really know how she would react since in a little over of two years working together they'd exchanged about a paragraph worth of outside intel.

"It's alright Wordy." She nodded to Lilly and he retrieved his sleeping daughter.

Lew pulled slightly at the material on her shirt and recoiled. "Man, it's clotting. What are you feeding that kid?"

"I'm so sorry."

"Wordy, it's fine." She almost laughed this time. Eyebrows a little arched at his instant apology. "I just wish I had something else to change into."

"I got a shirt you can use." Lew reached into the opened gap of his gym bag and handed her a faded purple sweatshirt. They spoke but he didn't hear the words. Just felt a twinge of guilt because his daughter had chosen to empty her entire stomach onto Jules, the only person who agreed to help them.

Jules returned from her locker room wearing an oversized, ancient Toronto Raptor's sweatshirt. With alterations it could have been a dress. Lew nodded, a long finger itched at the bottom of his chin. "See, you're working it."

"What did I say?" She pointed at him. A direct warning though her face was void of the danger.

"Jules, really. I'm so—"

"Wordy." She placed a hand on his bicep. Eyes gentle, face calm. "I had more fun holding your daughter than I ever did with that stupid shirt. It's fine."

He nodded, the cadence of her voice made him believe her. She grinned and touched Lilly's hand while she slept, "Goodnight Lilly."

He may not know a lot about her, but she was there to watch Lilly for him after countless other people refused to. May not know a lot about her, but for some odd reason he knew he could trust her with his daughter. Not because she's a woman and there's some inherent mechanism buried within them dictating how to care for babies, but because he knew she would do a good job, knew if Lilly did spit up on her, she wouldn't care.

The lockup is a moderately secured section of the building. Not designed to keep criminal masterminds out. Simple layers of brick painted and chipped. Repainted in a softer shade of white decaying into a sullied gray. The bars are basic lock and key. Nothing running on mechanical tracts with electricity or magnets. No serial killers reside here. No murders. No rapists.

Just drunks and entry level thugs. Nonthreatening types of law breakers who stumble around intoxicated in the wrong place. Or shoplift from the Eaton's center during the wrong time of day. Or who urinate on the property outside of a bar. Or who have too many unpaid parking tickets. Or who can't afford to pay their child support. Or who just punched a doctor in the face after not being provoked.

Footsteps echo in the emptiness of the corridor between cells. Thick rubber against the poured, smoothed cement. The guy from the desk, the one who gave him his CPR certificate nods and gestures to Sam in case he recognize his teammate. Ed sneers as the officer leaves, never liked him. The officer was removed from active duty due to medical issues. Ed said he should have just taken his pension and retired, having him on the force is dangerous to all of them.

The lockup is quiet. Just drunks sleeping it off, blissed out thugs and one Team One member sitting on a rickety cot underneath barred lights. It circles over him, contrasts the shadows. Ages him years. Ten years. The last five hours has aged them all ten years. Back flat against the concrete, dress shoes flat on the floor. Dress shirt without a suit, ripples and wrinkles throughout but no blood. No evidence.

He's thinking of a way to address the situation. He sympathizes and contemplates how he would react if he experienced prison time because of what happened to Shelly. His Shelly. Doesn't think anything anyone could say would mean a damn thing. Before he even utters a word, Ed is already half-cognitive in the game.

"You did it this time Braddock." Hand braced where the smoothness of the concrete fades back into stacked bricks. Years and years of stacked bricks.

Head shoots up and his body pops off the cot. Paces before the gate, the bars like an animal in a zoo exhibit. "You have to get me out. We have to go back to the hospital."

"More medical staff you need to beat up?" Ed snorts. His voice is getting the run on tendency. He's tired and his brain is losing the battle with alcohol.

Placing a hand on Ed's shoulder to steady and silence him, he adds, "We can only stay for a minute, Sam."

"No." Lips straighten and his feet go back to pacing before the door, like this whole thing is a joke. Doesn't grasp the seriousness of it. Maybe knows exactly how serious everything is. "No. I need to get out. I need to get back. "

Contemplates debating for Sam, representing him because the exact same thing has happened. Re-happened. A reoccurrence in the system. The algorithm. Repetition for emphasis. For meaningless. Use a word to much and what's the definition. Something happens to often and what's the use trying to fight it. Break apart like a glacier from the mainland. Float away until it melts.

Watches the convulsions of Sam's fists. The pure agony extracted in each muscle movement. Knows if he did fight to release him, he'd be responsible for him and something would go wrong. He can't have that. Can't be that involved. It's selfish. So so selfish. But this Team, this Team is his secondary family. Shelley, Maddy, Lilly and Allie. Those are his main players, the ones he would sacrifice more than his life for. And since this doesn't concern them, and would if he became actively involved, he has to back step to the sidelines.

"Sam, it's almost two. The morning shift starts at six, they'll—"

"No." Thunder in the hall. Open palm smacks at the bar. Startles him back awake. Ed doesn't move, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed with being anywhere. "I promised her. I stood there and I promised her."

"Well maybe, next time, don't go around hitting doctors." Ed shrugs off his hand, is almost leaning into the bars, trying to agitate. "Why did you?"

"He was—" Sam stops, backs away from the bars until his shins hit the edge of the cot. Sits slowly as if contemplating something while remembering it. "I was just angry I guess."

Change in personality is immediate. Passive. Quiet with his elbows balanced on his thighs. Not saying another word. Body hunched, almost double hunched to repress its height. Broken. He taps Ed's shoulder one last time and gestures for him to leave. His friend steadies on his feet and observes him through a quizzical expression lost in the drowning stench of whiskey. After a second he shuffles down the corridor and the clanging of bars echoes his exit.

"Sam," voice is compassionate, something he couldn't be with Ed there. Says Sarge coddles the younger members because of his own personal problems. Because of the son ripped out of his life from the same bottled breath. "Even if they let you out now, you can't go back to that hospital. You assaulted a doctor on the premise. Commander Holleran and Greg will probably—"

"I don't care."

Sighs in defeat. Everyone's adopted a nihilistic attitude. Ready to crash and burn and turbine into anyone within the general area. They're all just six burning satellites plummeting towards the ground, just at different speeds. The question is who's going to land the closest to Lew's wreckage. "It's only four hours."

As he turns to leave, Sam pops up again. Doesn't shift from the spot like his shoes are caught on a rivet, but his arm jerks in the false movement of reaching out. The false need to touch. "You didn't see her. You don't know what she looks like."

"I know what she looks like, Sam."

Footsteps tap over the ground as he rests against the bars. Hand scooping around the metal stripes. "If I can't get out of here, go be with her. Someone has to be with her."

Watches a smile crack through his features, jagged like the shell of a dropped egg. Watches his left hand rub a row of red tinged knuckles against oxidized metal. Watches eyes grow glassy in the sectioned, segregated lights. "She might tell you to leave, but she needs someone there. She doesn't like hospitals."

"Greg is going to be with her." The words fall out of his mouth like loose teeth as he turns and retreats to the vastness of the lobby. Stories of room, aesthetically pleasing tiles and robust armchairs. Ceiling fan ticks as he walks past the reception desk and waves to the man who reeducates in medical training because he's medically unwell.

Ed reclines just out the main doors under the wall lamps. Stream of steam shooting from his nose as he takes deep breathes. The frigid, early morning air sobering him up. The collar of his coat pulled up around his neck. "What did you say to him?"

Doesn't stop, keeps walking. There are times in the friendship where he has to be the aggressive one. Dealing with one too many criminals who all happen to be on his Team makes him a little fickle. Ed's steps stomp after him and his shadow stretches across the industrial illuminated building exterior to his feet. "I just told him Greg would be with her. Did you call him?"

"I got his voicemail, I left a message."

"So you didn't actually talk to him."

"Wordy, it's two in the morning. What do you want me to do?"

Heels dig into the ground with his halt. Stares at the ground, at the skewed shadows pinned to the curb by weighted light. Speaks through clouds of humid breath puffing from his mouth. "We can't just leave her there."

"I'm telling you, Greg is probably already there which is why he's not answering. He's not going to leave her. Besides you really think she wants us there?"

It's late and his conscience is weighted. But everything Ed says is completely true. Greg wouldn't abandon Jules of all people, especially not after the recent loss of Lew, especially not after what happened. It's also true he still doesn't know a thing about her. Not about the real her outside of work. Sure she's talked about her renovating her house. Sure every year at their family picnic she bakes the best Nanaimo bars. She's allergic to shellfish. She's the worse basketball player he's ever seen and is adamant in her belief that her shoes are a size nine.

But it's only a percentage of Jules. Only a mere fraction of who she really is and on top of his amassing guilt is the fact he's never gotten to know her. Because he doesn't know her, he doesn't have the right to see her even if he was brave enough. It's part of the reason why he can't go into random bars and get drunk on whiskey.

A cab arrives and Ed nods to the car. He raises his hand. "I'll get the next one."

Really just wants a second to be alone. To deal with everything and how he's going to tell Shelly without her experiencing some sort of akin emotion. Some sort of predetermined PTSD. Ed's eyes squint in miscommunication and then when he doesn't move, maybe in a hint of offense. But he walks to the cab.

"You need to stop getting involved with them." His hand is on the back passenger's door. Most people would address his meddling with their back turned, but Ed faces him. Unafraid, unabashed. "They're not you and Shelly. They were barely even a couple."

"I'll see you later, Ed." Voice is even, but doesn't say tomorrow. Tomorrow is too soon to see any of them. Feels like he needs another two weeks off on top of the Lew sabbatical. Now they're just going to get Lew's replacement and fire them out of the sky. Seven fiery satellites, tumbling towards the ground. Life is a series of repeating events. Repetition is meaningless.

* * *

><p>Humming. Industrial sized florescent lights buzz in the apiary of lockup. Secured in the gated light hive. Crisscrossed shadows thatching their way across the ground. Bars across the walls. Bars across the floors. Bars across the lights. The windows. The ground. His mind.<p>

Concrete is old and porous and pressing against his back. Reverse moles scooped into the milky gray wall. Hard, three inch thick mattress doing nothing to shield from the equally hard springs of the cot. Simple black frame with four black legs, the back left which wobbles, held together with random rusty screws.

Ceiling hums as metal prods his bones. Stuck. Caged. Abandoned and secured because he's wild. A renegade for practicing the displacement law. Hitting one asshole, hoping another feels it. Punching one guy who harmed her because he can't find the other. Sits feeling the dips between his knuckles swell slightly from bones cracking against bones.

Fingers indolently slide in the tender crevices between the ridges. Fingers stained with black ink. Skin cracks plugged with her blood. Bulky, sloppy lidded eyes close. Rims sticky in the innate call for sleep, with viscous sentimentality as the suction makes his lids suckle. Can't sleep. The choir above him hums. Angels in simple garbs as an ethereal background shimmers. They all have shoes.

Left her. Just left her. Boxed her up on the side of the road. An old lamp. A dirty couch. A blown out TV. A fridge that uses too much energy to cool a few simple beers. Last week's recycling. Last night's garbage. Yesterday's newspaper. A renovated living room where Santorini skies meant the world to him and bare feet were welcoming as they dug under the edge of his thighs for warmth.

A broken promise. A row of swelling knuckles, a doctor's broken nose, a wrist broken in two places among many other things. But a broken promise. Begged. Red pupil twisted and coiled in the agony of being a ruined plaything, the agony of reliance. The broken promise wrings around his heart, tighter than cuffs, heavier than his eyelids which open to view an exactly similar wall to the one he's leaning against.

Hum. Humming. Hymns. Gospel. Harp. Lyre. Leer. Probably started with a leer. If he was there he could have reversed it. How? Somehow. Does it even fucking matter? With words. With fists. With an equally violent glare. Who cares if he has no stake in her? He has a stake in her. Even if she doesn't want it because if he didn't he wouldn't feel like this. Could have done something. Something more than this jail cell bee hive church choir hum hymn.

Busts head against the wall a little too hard. A little too zealous. Overzealous. Over zealot. Quest for Camelot. Can't sleep won't sleep. Humming hymning choir clear. This bed is too goddamn hard; it's not even a real bed. It's something that passes for a bed in cheap universities. The military had better beds. Had better nights of sleep lying with sand depressing into his chest cavity. Life is too goddamn hard.

Sit still. Sit still don't fidget. Sand in his shirt. In his pants. In his shoes. Pebbled to his skin. Asphalt digging into his knees, a pair of legs splayed at an awkward angle. Sit still Sam, don't fidget. Don't forget. Last time. Last time sign me out. Broken promise. But—but Sarge is with her. Wordy said. Best bet. Best bet. Best bed. Her bed was the best bed. She was there. Eventually she let him be there too. Arm would fall over the invisible divide in the mattress to her side and she wouldn't try to rip it off. Would sigh. More time passed and she would snuggle. More time passed and they would just start without a divide. Sleep in late on Sundays. Push him out onto the floor because she needed the sheets for laundry.

One Sunday morning Jules purposely roused him, the only time she ever woke him with intention in the entirety of their relationship, including and especially after she was shot. Her right palm bit into muscle on his left shoulder. Jostled his body down to the sinew. Her forearm balanced bisecting his chest, elbow wobbled, threatened to dig into his ribs. "Sam, wake up."

"Huh?" His eyes remained closed and he wetted his lips, cracked from the stagnant early air. Smacked them together and tried to flip over onto his side, but she extended across him diagonally.

"Sam." Palm jolted his shoulder again. Both her thighs cradled his right leg. Voice sounded more serious, more critical. "Sam, wake up."

"What?" The urgency entwined in her voice woke him. He rubbed a heavy palm at one of his lazy eyes and sat up without forethought. Ended up bringing her, supported her with a right hand curving around the small of her back before she fully tumbled over his legs. She wore her terrycloth housecoat. A symbolic quelling of all of his sexual desires. He hated that robe since it had first made an appearance. It was impossible to get her out of it once she put it on; it stuck and formed to her body like a synthetic skin. Cognitively aware of all his naughty advances.

"Did I sleep in?" Nope, last night was a Saturday spent at the bar with the boys. Today was a slow Sunday, their day off. Half asleep, another thought struck him and his heart bounced, adrenaline already surging. His arm fell to her hip while he considered objects in the room he could use as a club. "Is there someone in the house?"

Her lips pulled back, wide mouth laughed at him. White and perfect teeth on display as she ducked her head a moment. "Sam, there's no one in the house."

"Then why did you wake me up?"

She laughed again. But the smile morphed, employed slyness as she reached to the bedside table and retrieved something. A large, heavy white cupcake smothered in chocolate frosting. It exuded cocoa, vanilla and Jules. Upon his reexamination, there were smudges of flour on her cheek. She just baked it. "You thought I wouldn't find out."

Collapsed back onto the bed with arm slung over his face. "How did you know?"

The bulky cupcake came to rest on the center of his chest, bobbed with his breaths to entice him. "I don't steal your wallet to just pay for things."

There was a single twisted white candle sprouting up from a sheath of thick frosting. A single match ignited it and he consciously steadied sniper breathing to avoid a birthday burn. She folded her arms and rested on the other side of the cupcake against his stomach. It wasn't helping his concentration at all. "Now make a wish."

Her playfulness was a little different. Refreshing though, so he indulged her. Closed his eyes for a split second and whistled air directly at the hula dancing flame. The chocolate frosting liquefied, became runny with the addition of heat. She dragged her index finger around the periphery of the wrapper waistband on chocolate muffin top to collect the runoff. Her fingerprint disappeared underneath a chocolaty mess.

"You have to try this sauce." Barely a second elapsed between her musing aloud and her finger shooting towards him. He didn't complain, willingly sucked her finger between his lips. The sweetness of sugar, the bitterness of cocoa and the punch of alcohol all mashed together on his taste buds as his tongue rolled against her finger. She didn't react, was more concerned with her creation. "It's good right?"

Finger retracted from his mouth, lips shaved any remnants of frosting off. Eyes squinted for a brief moment as the alcohol burned a chemical trail to his stomach. Then he realized her playful mood might not be due to the festiveness of his birthday. "That's pretty strong, Jules."

She shrugged, sitting up. Her legs disappeared beneath robe tails while her arms encircled his raised knee. Cheek fell against the cap and she spoke, "I had to get it right."

"Yeah, I think we should get you a cup of coffee." He moved to get out of bed, but completely forgot about the massive cupcake on his chest. The top heavy baked good toppled with a thump. Covered the center of his chest with a medium sized smudge of alcoholic chocolate. He groaned, set the cupcake on the nightstand and reached for something to wipe the frosting off with.

"I got it." Jules answered as she leaned forward.

He assumed she was going to use that stupid robe to clean it up since Sunday was usually laundry day. Instead she straddled his lap, an action which woke up all the nerves the alcohol and sleep calmed and clubbed. Her hands pushed his shoulders back and in a swift and lithe movement, her tongue lapped up all chocolate residue from his chest. It was warm and wet and sticky and enough to make him semi-hard.

Her tongue reappeared briefly to lick her bottom lip spotless and he wasted no time in capturing her mouth. Frantic and a little harsh, tongue invasive, sucking on her lips until he couldn't taste alcohol or chocolate. Just Jules.

"Wait." She half-laughed sideways against his lips in an attempt to break the kiss. His one hand tangled in her knotted mess of a bun, his other hand dangerously close to entering forbidden robe territory as it rested on the inside of her thigh over a small purple scar. He barely pulled back. Allowed her to keep talking while he planted wet kisses onto her chin. "Don't you want to open your present first?"

"Not really." He mumbled, lips motored against the underside of her jaw. Hand from the back of her head cupped the side of her neck. Felt her pulse race.

Her hand slid down the side of his neck until it became a physical barrier between his mouth and the rest of her body. "Come on Sam."

With a sigh he placed a more reserved kiss on the center of her palm. Restrained himself for her sake. He never even told her his birthday, because, well she didn't tell him hers. Still she had gone through the trouble of baking him somewhat of a cake. Ending up somewhat drunk while doing so, which in itself was enough of a present. He was up for this present, but his body was a little preoccupied at the moment. "Sure."

"Okay, well before you open it, I only found out about your birthday a few days ago." She knelt on the bed beside him and he almost had to sit on his hands.

"That's fine."

"So I basically had to find stuff around the house to wrap up." She played with her housecoat tie and he wondered if she was purposefully prolonging this conversation.

"It's the thought that counts."

"That's refreshing." Angled belt end of her terrycloth robe lied flaccid in her hand. Fingernails brushed against the material one final time before handing him the end. "Happy Birthday."

Precious seconds ticked by before he fully comprehended the significance in what she offered him. The curse of the robe was over. His body curved forward, inherited a wolfish grin as fingers tugged the knot loose. He expected to find pristine skin. Skin he would taste from delivering it freedom from that horrible blue terrycloth prison.

Instead he was met with intricacies. Black and white and pink. Lace and frills. And dear God, little bows. Tiny pink bows ornamental like on a birthday cake. She was wearing lingerie. He'd never asked her to wear lingerie, never figured her the type to. Actually figured he might gain a fat lip or lose some teeth by asking. But there she was, all done up in a corset and boy shorts and he was the one who couldn't breathe.

The mischievous expression caused from being half-hammered at eight on a Sunday morning drained from her face. Palms shoved down on her hips and she checked herself out with a glance over her shoulder. Lucidity brought reserve and insecurity. He wondered if the alcoholic frosting was a coincidence. "Does it look okay?"

Didn't even answer her. Not verbally at least. Managed to tone down his tackle to a pounce so there were no major injuries. It was akin to when lions overpower gazelles. She laughed beneath him. So mirthful, it almost constituted a giggle. It only turned him on more. The bodice pressed into his bare chest, thick firm sides maintained its motionlessness. Lace tickled and itched.

He buried his mouth against hers. Tongues coiled, looped, infinite. His hands simultaneously travelled up her smooth thigh, and over her ribs. Felt the compression of her diaphragm under his fingertips. She broke the kiss, needed a breath. He was engrossed, twisted wet hard kisses down her jaw line. Swooped to her neck.

She sighed, slanted her neck to give him an advantage. Cold fingertips dipped into his hair, nonverbal encouragement. Five more splayed across his back. Lips toppled down, hailed from above. Haphazard. She shivered beneath him, arched upwards. He twitched in his boxer shorts.

Mouth pursed against her pale skin ridged by a perfect collarbone. Created suction, tongue stroked in swift circles, teeth hinted at but never fully bit.

"Sam." It was almost a moan. She almost moaned his name. It was so fucking hot. That coupled with the lingerie was causing the thin material of his boxer shorts to become agonizing. But ice fingers dragged across his neck, grounded him for a single second. "No hickeys."

He didn't stop. Actually increased the pressure of his lips. The friction of his body. Her leg, the one not currently under his left hand, wrapped around his waist. Heel of her foot depressed the band of his boxers. She gave no real indication for him to stop, aside from the direct words. He pasted his lips to her skin and responded, "It's my birthday."

"Fine." She nodded several times. Words a little breathless already as he continued. "Just one."

He was already on the second when she told him. The first one shouldn't have to suffer in loneliness. Both perfectly formed, symmetrical, like twin cherries on a stem. He thought not to press his luck; concessions were made for his birthday he should be grateful for them.

Mouth travelled lower, over the swell of one breast rigidly imprisoned by the corset. Braided wet kisses together until he met the dive between. Loves the dive. Felt safe at the dive. Cried at the dive. Placed his head at the dive and listened to her heart beat so many times he can't separate memories.

His hand clasped her breast through the corset. Over the elaborate lace lining on the cup. Thought maybe her breast would escape over the fringe. There had been frantic times between them where her bra didn't even end up all the way off, but he got to them. The corset, however, was very protective.

Barely lifting his head he questioned, "How does this come off?"

She caught his lips, magnetically dragged him upwards. Her hands calmed and enticed on the sides of his face. The kiss fluctuated, lolled and raced, pecked and stretched. She pulled back, chest flushed from arousal. "Sam, you do remember it's your birthday? You're supposed to be—" She jerked beneath him. The leg hanging off his waist snapped with the sudden jolt as he moved the hand from her thigh to stroke her, just to garner her attention.

Hand stationed, remained in place and his lips sucked on her ear lobe. "How do you know this isn't exactly what I want?"

He made sure his breath was hot on her neck. Replaced his hand with his body, more preferential parts. Immediately her hips shot down, grinded into him. Nuclear reaction. She mimicked his position; earlobe between lips, hot raspy breaths raised him. "There are some clasps in the back."

Some was the biggest understatement of his entire life. Saying there were some clasps was like saying there were some stars in the sky or some water in the ocean. The whole back was fucking clasps. And that was his Jules. Even shitfaced she managed to get the upper hand. Probably saw how the corset did up and bought it just for that reason. Probably had it specially made.

"This entire thing is clasps." Jules sat upright in his lap, his chin rested against her shoulder as he tried to fathom how to get the fucking thing off. Part of him just wanted to cut it off, rip it off, but then he'd never see it on her again and that was a tragedy in itself.

"Some of us never really leave high school." Plump lips grazed the skin just below his ear. Her arms curled around his neck and fingers spread into his hair. He forced together the sides of the corset like a bra and a few of the clasps undid. Kisses became more aggressive, hot and wet against his skin. Distracting in a fully appreciated way. Concentration divided because she still smelled like cupcake. Got him harder by the second.

"This thing is impossible." Lips against her shoulder for retaliation. The top and the bottom third popped undone but the middle remained locked.

"You should've seen me trying to get it on." She laughed and almost giggled again. Another twitch, he was more than uncomfortable.

She tapped kisses down his jaw, under his chin over his Adam's apple. Hand detangled from his neck and fell to his lap, slithered into the slit in his boxers. Did some swift retaliation. His breath hitched in his throat. "Jules."

"You must be getting really uncomfortable."

"Maybe if you didn't pick the fucking Rubik's Cube of all lingerie."

Words left his mouth too quickly because her hand stroked him, and her breasts, albeit covered in lace, pushed firmly into his chest and her warm thighs were split on either side of his legs. He just wanted the fucking corset off. It was a thing of beauty and only enhanced Jules' masterpiece level of attractiveness but right now: gone. He thought she'd be upset at his anger.

She wasn't. Her hand lessened its grasp. Her tongue rattled in her mouth as she blew a raspberry. "You'd be done already if you stopped bitching."

He kissed her, because he had to. She was perfect. And while his lips smacked against hers, and their tongues spiraled, he finished the final section. The corset became limp on her body. He whipped it across the room. He'd find it later and beg for forgiveness but right now his focus was on the prisoners of war.

The dive welcomed him. Unmarred by protruding bones as seen on disgustingly skinny girls. Hands wandered uninhibited, cupping and kneading, had an all access pass. He nuzzled, lapped, kissed. Tongue swirled, flicked and circled. Hand stretched flat over her stomach, the entire expanse of it. Thumb strummed over her navel like a guitar chord.

Mouths regrouped, discussed their recent activities. One arm gently edged her back while the other traced her leg. Shin to knee to thigh by scar up around her ass to find the ruffles on the back of her panties.

"You got ruffles?" He moaned against her mouth. Hand undulated through the extra material copying the shape of her perfect ass.

She grinned against his mouth. He kissed the corner as she rested on her back. Usually they had long winded debates about what position to use. She didn't like being on top because she's self-conscious but won't admit to it. Instead she used the veil of his laziness to shy away from that position. He didn't like being on top because he always felt like he was crushing her. She always said she was fine. He never believed her. Their preferred position was sitting, embracing with her in his lap. No one got crushed, no one got self-conscious. The workload was evenly distributed. This morning was different.

"I thought you'd like them." Her thumbs hooked into the side of his boxers. Directed them down, stealthily over any protruding hurdles. His hands ran up the ruffles one final time before relieving her body fully of the lingerie.

The sex was simultaneously momentous and casual. Since they no longer used condoms each sexual encounter with Jules grew more fervid. His face was buried in the side of her neck; a hand fastened him there, half in his hair half on his neck, his arm held one of her legs angled along his body when they climaxed. He set the fast pace. Whenever he set the pace they didn't climax together. She came first, which triggered him. With Jules' pace it was always synchronized.

Afterward he collapsed on top of her. Head in the dive. Her chest powered excessive breathes, the rate and the force did not propel him an inch. Her hand brushed back his hair. His hand covered her exposed breast. Early morning post-sex addled mind told him she might be cold. Still on top of her. Still inside of her. Refused to get off, out until he had to. Lingered long kisses against her chest. Salty sweet skin. Pushed up and kissed her on the lips. Kiss evolved from a soft meeting, to a hard course of beating lips. Tongues tangled. Her hips bucked against his and he grew hard again.

"Sam." She laughed, almost giggled again. Harder. He gathered her into an upright position. Her forearm rested against his cheek and his face was less than an inch away from hers. He darted his tongue out and licked her lower lip. "Did you take something?"

"Did you drug the cupcake?" Thumbs rotated over her hips. Massaged. Felt her responding. Sucked on the inside of her forearm.

"I put alcohol in it to slow you down."

"And look how well that worked," he whispered to her lips and seized her mouth.

Clanging. An alarm? His alarm? No his alarm is the early morning sports report. Hates the futuristic klaxon his clock radio spews if he adjusts it a setting too far. Her alarm clock was old school. Nostalgic. The kind found in East coast bed and breakfasts. Little hammer picking away between two bells. Got irritated with his early morning radio sports garble and started setting her bells two minutes earlier, so he set his sport show three minutes earlier, eventually they were getting up half an hour early for no reason other than spite and blind competition. The extra time together was hardly ever wasted.

Metal retracts. His eyes open to the limitless industrial lighting. The guard stands in the opened cell door, a shadow leaking it's innards onto the white light of the incandescent hallway. "You can go now."

Sits up on the edge of the stiff cot. Ignores the pain radiating in his lower back and down his side. Ignores the odd areas on his wrists where the skin is rubbed down to a gummy redness. "What?"

"It's six." The guard juts a thumb telling him to move. Like some more important, more infamous criminal is waiting just around the corner to use the cell for illicit activities.

He arches his neck when he stands; tries to pop layered vertebrae back into straight order but crooked muscles aren't cooperating. The guard stops him at the cells door. "You'll get a letter in a week with your court date."

"Great."

"Until then avoid Toronto General and Dr. Parsons."

Doesn't answer, just brushes past the guard. Feels the cool metal bars briefly through his dress shirt. Doesn't even remember buying this shirt, putting on this shirt, where his jacket is. Memory a splatter of paints smudged with a clumsy hand. Doesn't think he even has his own emotions anymore except those she invokes in him. The rage and guilt from what happened to her. The relief he still gets from being around her even in her current state. The guilt from being grateful she's alive. From taking a moment in the back of a police car to let out a raspy laugh when he realized she really was alive. The guilt because she's in so much pain and he's just glad she's alive.

Retrieves his personal effects from a replacement cop behind the sign-out desk. Wallet, keys and cell phone all neatly packed away in an evidence bag. Wonders for a single microsecond what The General would think if he found out his only son's clean record had been sullied because he beat up a misogynistic doctor? Wonders what the infinitesimal odds are that his own father would see his views. It has to be less than a decimal point; he doesn't even think The General loves his mom anymore.

Hails a cab, which is hard to do coming out of a police station. The cabby eyes him nervously during the ride, unsure whether he's a cop or criminal. Not knowing he's both. Visiting hours at the hospital start in an hour and a half. He has enough time to go home, shower, collect a few things before getting her the fuck out of there. She needs him, she asked for him out of everyone. He fucked things up. Wishes he was smart about the whole thing, reported the doctor to a superior or board or something. Instead, he only did her more harm. Hospitals, they destroy Jules, they oppress her in every way possible. She asked him out of everyone for one thing. He failed.

His car sits underneath a tall lamppost in the parking lot. Giant, square bulb still illuminated against the early gray sky like the world's biggest bug zapper. Acts like a beacon, an obelisk though he doesn't need it. His car is one of the only few remaining. Under the dewy sheen attached to the smooth skin of his SUV, there's a moist piece of paper. A citation left underneath a wiper blade because he should have vacated the empty lot three hours ago. It doesn't bother him, even if he didn't spend the morning in prison he would have forgotten about his car. A single red pupil erased it from his memory.

The drive home is languid, tiring. Muscles and bones ache in the same fashion he hasn't felt in years. Not since spending nights asleep on exotic desert sands which lump, bump, stir and swirl. Choke in storms and suck the moisture away from any orifices. Lying on his stomach for days. Incognito. Camouflaged even though he was miles away. Finger curled around a trigger like an overdone piece of meat. He doesn't complain. Can't complain. Won't complain. Because he's seen her.

His apartment building is empty. The lobby full of shimmering dust in the weak morning light splashing across the checkered floors. The elevator ride bumpy. A void. Just more time he has to waste. Constraints. There's always constraints. The past, the present, the Team, the job, his needs, her sacrifices, his inabilities. His stupidity.

Half expects his apartment messy. Full of pizza boxes accumulating vermin of sorts. Of shed clothing in the living room. Of dishes piling in the sink and ravaging the counter. But it's not. It's perfectly clean. Down to a gleaming leather sofa with flawlessly positioned throw pillows. Down to the hockey sticks leaning straight behind his door. Down to unscuffed light oak floors. It's because he hasn't been here, hasn't spent time here at all in the last two weeks if he didn't have too.

Shower and a change of clothes doesn't help. The grime, the guilt, the layer of residue from last night, the last two weeks, the last two years remains on him. In him. Pulls on jeans and runs a towel over his hair to shake out any clingy drops while staring into his closet. Staring at something particular. Something hidden away. In the corner. In a gray, wilting plastic bag. In the dark corners of oblivion. Almost in someone else's apartment. Like he can't smell the perfumes, even though he's washed and rewashed the clothes. Like he can't remember exactly how they came to be in his effect. Hotel. Door. Screaming. Kissing. Shower. Imprint of tiles.

Cautiously, like the bag is really a figment of his imagination, he brings it down from the top shelf. Two hands on the bottom load of it, like he's offering it to royalty. Can already smell her. The old her. The true her. Can already smell her.

A fragment of his imagination. The bag might snap. Crack. Break into a million tiny marbles and crash on the floor for him to live with for the rest of his life. He'll never be rid of her. He never wants to be rid of her. Hid the bag for so long because it's like an addict finding enough coke to cake under a fingernail. Sure he works with her, has to see her every day, but that's not the real her. He knows the real her. Has seen the real her. Officer Callaghan is not real. Jules is the woman who took a sledgehammer to her wall to fix the plumbing, who only paints her toenails for particular reasons, who made him homemade soup when he was sick.

Opening the bag, he finds a photo on the top of a pile of clothes. He knows the contents well enough. Sweatpants. Black T-shirt. Panties. Has washed them four times in the last two months trying to get her out of his head. Out of his apartment. Trying not to make it a home. But the photo. Them, at some downtown parade. He grabbed her before she could dodge it. She was paranoid about pictures, about their relationship being detailed in concrete, unerasable actions. Arms around her waist. Chin on her shoulder. Lips pressed to her cheek. Her face squinting in the surprise of the action. He bought it. Kept it.

Keeps it. Doesn't pocket it. It's not something he should keep in his wallet. Or a frame. Or on display. It's something internal. Something he can't rid himself of because he still feels this way. Even now. Continually just wants to be acting out the scene in the picture. They were happy. They were in love, though it would take her breaking up with him for her to admit. He never would. Never told her how he felt. Wonders why. It must have been so obvious what she meant. Means.

Opens a drawer to his dresser to retrieve a pair of socks and slips the Polaroid down the side. Finds the socks he knows she likes. Grandpa socks. Gray and blue knitted. Meant for a week in Whitehorse. She took a liking to them. Used them in days spent in his cold hotel room. Used them when she eventually caught his cold after it mutated from running through the rest of the team.

Flops the socks in his hand and wonders if she has shoes. Knows she owns shoes. Wonders if she had them with her. Never saw them. Did she bring them? Did they take them? Bounces the fingerprint dotted layer of forced forget off the bag, and steps into the hall. Finds black and white running shoes from a few months ago. She took them once. Used them to go for a morning run when she didn't have hers. You used my shoes? Would you rather I run in heels? Held her in the bed, her head tucked under his chin. It frightened him to wake up and not find her there. His hotel wasn't exactly in the safe part of town. But it reminded him she had a life outside of him, when his outside of her was starting to dissolve.

Shoes. His life is compacted into a shoebox. Not even. A pair of shoes. Two singular pairs of shoes. Toppled and forgotten. Slain. Bagged and tagged. Blue floral sandals. Charbroiled faded green ballet flats. Both abandoned in the middle of the road. No toes. No heels. No pads. No soles. A nine-year-old boy's preoccupation with shoes still nestles within him. Still can't shake the fear.

The streets are getting busy when he returns to his SUV. Showered so fast, the wetness still clings to the folds in his skin. Gives the phantom sensation of perspiration in the cool, gloomy October morning. Historic running shoes and a shopping bag of clothing with more importance than anything in his apartment sit in the front seat as he drives to the hospital. Is intent on being direct, but doesn't have any money for the meter. For parking. Doesn't need another ticket. Doesn't need a third x on his record in one night. The SRU might—who the hell cares. The SRU—the Team, they were supposed to take care of her. Were supposed to protect her. Should've bricked her up in the absence of Lew. He knows how she gets. He's the rookie; they must know how she gets and just ignored it. Bullets flying in the air. Him on his stomach in Afghanistan. One hitting her on a Toronto rooftop.

On instinct he finds himself in a drive-thru. Coffee, the daytime equivalent of beer. Didn't drink much on Lew's death. Didn't really know him like the rest of them did. Sure two years of a friendly face and then watching that friendly face crash against two tons of concrete is disconcerting, but it's not like the other deaths he's witnessed. The other deaths he's caused. Nearly caused.

Orders her a coffee and some sort of breakfast hybrid thing. Wonders if she'll actually eat if. If she was Jules she wouldn't. Liked to cook her food. Know what was in her food. Private and only go out on occasion. Probably won't. He can't eat. Crustaceans creeping around in his G.I. track. Sucking up his stomach acid like it's brackish goodness. Doesn't like shellfish. Pressed that he didn't like shellfish. Stared at a crimped shrimp leg and thought of Jules, engorged and leopard patterned at the retirement party. Gag reflex.

He can't eat. A single red pupil is a stomach clamp. A stomach pump. An off button to the hunger receptor in his brain. Every second he eats is a second he's not doing something productive. He can't eat. She's buried. Buried underneath the swollen, contused mess growing on the side of her face. Under the layers of plaster on her arm. The ten lengths of rope holding her lip together. His Jules is buried alive in there. He can't eat. Because she is his Jules. Every part of her is. In whole. In sections. In a million marbles clacking around his apartment floor. He wants and accepts every single piece of her. Always has without contemplation and it drove them apart. That person, that woman he can't recognize, is his Jules. And he can't eat because some guy—some guy grabbed—unwanted and and—struggled and she— she fought. His Jules fought as he—

Rips open his driver's door at the mouth of the road and vomits. The dashboard blinks a red light informing him his door is open as a frantic ding runs wildly within the cabin. It's water. Reduced water that burns like hell on the way up because he hasn't eaten anything since the shr—throws up again at the plate full of shellfish. Crusty, beady eyed shellfish with opposable legs. Shellfish which when flung at the woman he loves could kill her.

Parks in the lot across from the hospital. The same lot. Almost the same spot underneath the all seeing lamppost. Holds his coffee in his hand. Singes his fingertips through crude plastic. Pretends it doesn't burn his acid corroded throat every time he takes a sip. Stares at the extra. Cream no sugar. How many times in the back of her jeep staring at the stars as he tells her he's afraid of water but not as much as he's afraid of abandoned shoes.

How many? Sitting on her back porch, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders although she says she doesn't need one. A piece of her is missing. Left on a rooftop. The summer crickets begin to chirp in her back garden and he wants a beer instead of a coffee, but she can't drink alcohol with her medication. So cream no sugar.

How many creams no sugars? Returning back to her house after a bad shift. The worst he can remember where everyone survived. A downtown drug fortress riddled with guns and a bomb. A bomb which sent the team spiraling. Pawns everywhere, protect the queen. In the settling rubble and dust he found Spike. Not the person he was looking for. Spike found Lew and they exchanged an all-knowing glance when he asked if they'd seen Jules.

Jules was with Ed. Wordy with Sarge and they met up after nearly three hours of excavation. Three hours of breathing in ancient building dust and sitting with Lew and Spike as they discussed stupid movies and the prospect of travelling. He just wanted to hold her. Breathe her in. Then when they finally saw each other, all they could manage was a perceivable nod. He got corralled into choir practice and she went home. After two beers, one which he nursed, licked at like an open wound, he took a cab back to her place.

Had a key by then. A sacred key which he almost imbued with the powers of a cross. Walked into her warmly lit house and heard sloshing from upstairs. Didn't get to see her much after the debrief. She went right home, not bothering to change or shower. Just left. He asked the guys why she didn't come to choir practice and Ed just gave Wordy a shared grin. They chuckled and pushed by him to the door.

The wooden bathroom door was hot, musty under his fingertips as he lightly rapped. Didn't want to disturb her unwinding technique. Actually contemplated on just going to watch TV in the bedroom until she was done, but he needed to hear her voice.

"Jules?"

"Door's open."

Didn't expect that. They'd been going out for about six weeks at the time. Were pretty comfortable around each, her shyness in lack of clothing around him slowly dissipating. But this was different. This was an after crisis ritual. They each had their own way to deal and he was being invited into hers. Cracked the door open to a thick vapor hung from the bathroom ceiling like exotic jungle vines. Mirrors clogged with steam until washed a dull gray.

She reclined in the claw-footed tub. Legs crossed at the ankle and resting on the lip. Steam curled off her pink skin. Shoulders peaked out of the waterline which rested at the swell of her breasts. Her hair slowly dried in natural waves, the tips fell past her collarbone, lapped at the water. She blow dries her hair straight, but uses a curling iron. He still does not know why.

He set cream no sugar on the counter and crossed his arms. Didn't want to openly admire her. She shied away from those sorts of actions. Clawed for the nearest blanket, sheet or robe to cover her body. Instead he tried not to notice the way the water slightly distorted the image of her body below the surface.

"How long have you been in there?"

"I don't know?" Her spine rolled up in the water to raise her an inch or two. She crossed her arms against the porcelain side of the tub. Dark eyes watched his movements as he got the towels out of the cupboard. She always forgot. Was always this frantic wet thing making a mess. "Does forever sound too long?"

Smoothed out faultlessly folded towels and turned back to her. A length of her hair slithered in the dive between plumped up breasts and she rested her chin on her forearms. Chin dropped more and lower lip fattened, red from the heat, in a slight pout.

"Just a bit." Ignored the massive amount of spilled water on the tiles and knelt before the tub. Kissed her like he wanted to kiss her when he found out she wasn't one of the causalities among the rubble. Lips were full and thick from over an hour in the bathroom's humidity, but her neck was still soft under his hand. Still flawless. Their foreheads met, noses filled the empty space in each other's profile and he breathed her into his lungs like concrete and mortar.

In a whisper. A hiss almost drowned out by the sound of a stray drop from the tub's faucet, she spoke into his chin. "I was so afraid Sam."

By then she was half in his arms. A sopping wet body against his. The smooth softness of her arms wrapped around his neck as she grasped him. The tickle of droplets as they plunged from her skin and down his back. The stickiness of her drying shoulder and the crook of her neck when he rested his mouth and cheek there. "I know."

Knew because he felt the exact same way. Like he had the entire world and it was torn from his hands. From inside his body. From his bloodstream, brain and lungs in a single moment. Knows because the same thing happened on a rooftop in Downtown Toronto. Knows because the same thing happened last night.

Opened his eyes and found a charcoal smudge midlevel across her back. Ran jagged, alone, perpendicular to the contour of her spine. Without even thinking he strummed a thumb across her skin. Vanished the dirt. "You had some soot."

"Yeah." Hand dipped into the water and breached. Thumb pad caressed, fingers bent to the curve of his cheek. To this day still remembers the touch of her hand, the water on his cheek. The combination is how he defines love. "You do too. I don't know how you guys can shower and still stay so dirty."

"Your water is getting cold."

"So?"

"So you either need to add more or get out." Her skin adopted goosebumps in the lapse of their embrace. In the lapse of the sauna induced atmosphere. "You're going to catch a cold."

She pulled the plug chain with her toes and chuckled at him, incredulous and superior. "I don't catch colds."

It was a lie. She caught a cold from him. It almost destroyed her.

"I bought you a coffee." He held the towel open for her. Wrapped her up in it. Watched her get swallowed by a layer of gray cotton.

"Can we drink them in bed? I don't think I can do much else." Asked him like it was his house. Asked him like he had equal part in her decisions. Asked him from under the shoulder hunch of the biggest towel he'd ever seen. She wore it like a fur coat.

Grabbed her sideways, arms supported the thick fabric. The front of his jeans and t-shirt permeated with sweet smelling bath water. His lips pressed against her temple, nose stranded in her hair. She closed her eyes. Peaceful, ruminating. "I know." She answered to his unasked question. Because she did.

He's strangling the coffee cup in his hand. It's empty. Done its job burning a track into the flesh of his throat. Sucker punched cup bows in his hand as his eyes scan over the dune of the empty parking lot. Then to the passenger's seat. Plastic bag crinkles in the silence. Tries to make conversation he doesn't want. Countless wasted hours spent sitting in a chair across from a complete stranger when they ask him what he wants out of life. Knows what he wants. Has been denied it. Someone else was denied it and they just took it. Coffee cup spits up what little remainder it has left on his hands.

Cream no sugar. Cream no sugar and a bag of clothing he's imbued the universe into. Shoes. Floral blue shoes belonging to a hand holder. Faded ballet flats clattered and charred. A crying baby. A crying baby and cream no sugar. Decaf. Picture in a sock drawer and the universe is a billion marbles. Shoes. Running shoes. Is she even going to be able to walk?

Glances around the deserted parking lot and shifts the gears of the SUV into drive. Coffee cup crumbles to the middle islet between the two front seats as he spins out of the lot and back on the street. Waits for a passing car and drives straight across the threshold into the emergency entrance ambulance bay.

Parks his SUV at the side, ready to flash his badge if anyone even speaks a word to him. A ticket is a ticket. He can pay it and in a few years no one will know he had it. Jules is Jules. The same Jules parading underneath different skins and masks. The same Jules who shared her house, her bed, her love with him. Who he can only love openly in a picture. Whose red pupil is worth a million marbles.

* * *

><p>"Hey Jules."<p>

Sans a sweetheart. Pupil doesn't scroll to the door. Doesn't welcome him. No body cleansing gasp. No ramshackle smile constructed by occult energy. No open arms. Right is stapled to her chest cavity. Focuses on the wall without singular blemish. The same yellow walls. Never seen them before. The same one stalked all night. The same one hunted her all day. Body hasn't been mobile in years. Mind circulates rapid memories. Tributaries. All physically painful. Few bleed from last night.

His shoes scuff across the ground. Lazy—no fatigued. Nervous. He's nervous around her now. Never used to be. Her actions used to make him nervous. Instilled him with a pronounced nervousness. An anxiety he has no right to but still claims. She'd do things. Job related things. Cop related things. Hand-to-hand combat with a perpetrator. Pounce a fleeing suspect. Result in a bruise or scratch.

He'd dote. A small tear in her skin. Broken blood vessel. Disinfectant or a Band-Aid. Always ice. High quality ice. Excavated from undiscovered corners of her freezer. Ice to elbow or ankle or knee. Wherever the phantom swelling congregated. Could never see it. Never feel it. He always could. See it. Feel it. Chide for caution. It was part of the job. Swimmers get ear infections. Librarians get paper cuts. Cops get knocked around. Shot at. That's while on duty.

The sunlight advances. Wall slashes. Flares. Yellow on yellow. The brilliance causes volcanic eye eruptions. Amaurosis from pain. Eye closes. Other eye sealed closed. Nose burns. Brimming. Force fed oxygen.

Stops mid-step. Middle of the room. Children's game. Mid hunt. Afghanistan. Landmine.

Momentum. A coast. Not symbiotic. Parasite from last life. Last night. Past strife. She feels everything. So much. She feels nothing. Everywhere.

"I'm pretty sure that was more than a few minutes." Her words startle. Him. The wall. Herself. The cadence breathless. Exhausted. Nonexistent. Couldn't cause a flame to dance.

"I know." His arms lifts. And falls. And lifts again. Windmill. Wind power. His movements mechanical. First step stutters. Ticks across the floor. He sighs loudly. The words don't mix right. Stunted by stunted actions. "I'm sorry Jules. I'm so—"

"Doesn't matter."

Stands beside her body. Guards. Stands like last night. Last night? Before they all disappeared. Alone. In a room. Watching the moon and sun topple over chipped paint. No sundial. No marked constellations. Kenneled. People go insane. "Do you still want to be signed out?"

Doesn't answer. The question reprimands. Promises of ice cream to a belligerent child. Like blackmail. Reminds how much she needs him. Remember when I signed you out and we weren't even fucking? Keeps her in order. Smashed into a paneled living room in The Hat. Or a Santorini wall in Toronto.

"Jules, I'm going to go sign you out." Deduces her answer. Practically inseparable for four months. Knew—knows well enough to solve for x. What she needs. Versus what he and Team One and the hospital staff and the rest of the world want.

A gray plastic bag plops onto the gurney. Creates ripples in the starchy sheets. She doesn't react. To his statement. To his movement. To the hissing of the crinkling bag. Moods interchangeable. Globes in a lava lamp. Fatigue or loss of will? Upset or misinterpreted pain? Emotions swell. Stagnant in numb provoked pelvis.

"I brought you a change of clothes. They're yours, they're clean. You left them at my place awhile ago." Long fingers straighten plastic pigtails. Unpack a pair of sweatpants. A black t-shirt. A pair of underwear. Offers pile of uneven folded clothes. "Can you get changed by yourself?"

Should be yes or no. Yes. No. Hurts. Tired and it hurts. No. No. Gnarled zipper teeth on jeans unfurl. No. Staff won't let her go for no. Sam won't leave her the hell alone for no. "Yes."

"Okay, I'm going to go do the paperwork. I'll be back in ten minutes." Click. Clack. Guardrail lowers. Trust. Aid. Thoughtfulness. Fury? Masquerading fury subsides. "I'll knock before I come back in."

Door whispers shut. Knows. Knows like the chattering empties. Perpetual empties. No school pictures. The closed blinds clink against the wooden frame. Linens discarded. Later burned. Biohazard rubber gloves. Uncensored leg memories reconnaissance with pale realities. Small bruises scatter. Kitchen smudges. Map markers. Flesh gradation. Violence concentrated on the center of her body. Contusions frequent over the knee. Dots to groups. Groups to solid. Falling cherry blossoms.

Underwear. Familiar. Unfamiliar. Cotton not lace. Singular hand guides feet. Ankle sling. No blood. Informed to expect sporadic blood. Swollen. Elastic bunches material. Shimmies up legs. Rollercoaster after knees. Fluid jump. All the way. Lungs burst. Ribs crackle. Back sears. Lopsided on hips.

Cuffs pant legs. Light material. Follows preset route. Inhale. Grit teeth. Arch back. Hike waistband left side. Hike waistband right side. Sit down. Exhale. Repeat. Complete. Loose and low on hips. Can't knot with left hand. Raise waistband. Discover tender internal area. Lower waistband.

Edge of the bed shuffle. Ache pool in lower back. Sharp pain in right thigh. Standing thwarted by oxygen tube. Hospital won't give her up. Hand pulls at the tube ingrained in her hair. Serpents behind her ears. Rubber rolls collecting hair. Ripping it. Hardwood floors. A hand buried in hair shackles head to the ground. Running slipping blood. Running for two decades. Still getting caught by her hair. Her hair was done up. It was done up.

Floor is cold. Slick under the pads of her feet. Testing the water. Hardwood covered in blood. Slip and slide. Crouch and crawl. Grunt and bang. Flicks her lower lip out of habit. Quells the pain. Forgets about sweatshop stitching linking the continents. Torso pressure subsides. Ebbs as she idles. Each movement a new rapture. Clump of black material on the bed confuses her. Uncomprehending obstacles. Arm sling. Gown tie. Non-dominant arm predetermined to stop at collarbone.

Light rap at the door. Blinds don't jiggle. "Jules, you decent?"

Never answers. Hand raven-clawed. Gouging into the feeble mattress. He is a heavy sigh. The door closes behind him. Handle pre-engaged for silence. Shoes squeak over the cold probable slanted floor. "Are you—do you want help?"

Of course not. Needs help. Doesn't want it. Chest convulses under cupped fingers. Ribs convex and concave. Player piano keys. "I—" jagged exhalation. Body creasing at the naval. "I can't."

Four. Five squeaks. The current changes around her body. Swirls around her back. Charged. Uncharged. His hand hesitates at the splay of bare battered skin rolling between shoulders. He won't touch her. No one will. This room is a display case. Hazardous materials handle with care. Rubber gloves and cotton swabs.

Hand sudden on her back. Straightens her out. Almost flinches it away. But it settles again like a napping cat. Stiff and warm. Too many hands. Too many hurtful single digits. Thick and piercing. Ten distinct penknives. A catcher's mitt full of stones. Other hands clamp. Control. Contain. Contuse. Crunch her wrist and stake her throat to the floor. This hand is different. Not all together welcome but not entirely unknown. Elicits domestic composure.

"Okay." Calmness. Stoic calmness enflamed by fear and rage. It twangs vocal cords. Thumb metronomes. Collects evidence drywall and Santorini Sky and blood and hair and spit and sweat and semen. Bite marks and finger prints. Written recollections untainted by painkillers. What did you do after that? Are you sure? How tall was he? Are you sure? Was it him? Are you sure? Why the vendetta? Are you sure? "Okay Jules."

Recollections of collections. Muggy spring recumbent in a half aborted bedroom. Bare legs angled, one knee peaked. Paperback cover distorted and circled. The intense need to finish. Waved toes.

"Good book?" He consumed the doorway. Towel agitated freshly showered hair. Bare-chested. Sweatpant bottomed. Complained once about the lack of central air. Didn't complain again.

Rolled her bottom lip within. Forefinger tapped page. No interruptions. "I'm almost done the chapter."

"Oh." Hung the towel on the back of the door. Hated that. Hates that. Wet door. Wet paint. Wet floor. Wet wood. Rotten wood. Sensed this from an arched eyebrow over the folded spine. Hung the towel over the shower. Pointed to the inactive TV. Pointed at himself in the Claude glass."Can I check out the scores in here?"

Quiet. Page corner under nail. Quiet. "Yeah, sure."

Bed depressed with his weight. Room glowed ethereal colors from the TV. Focused on the black on white print before her. Almost done the chapter. But a body nudged her own. A big muscular body wiggled its way between the novel and her eyes. "Argh Sam."

Both gave grunts. Expansive back rested against her chest. Strong arms wrapped around her legs. Head rested on the shelf of her breasts. Human Barcalounger.

"That's better." He sighed. Content. Kissed the apex of her knee.

Hand raked soft blond hair. "I swear Sam; you're like having a golden retriever."

"You're fine with this?" Body sunk. Eyes circled up from under the book lip.

"Yeah." Sighed heavy. Dip of stomach met the back of his head. Didn't jostle his body an inch. "Just don't distract me."

Minutes passed. Seconds. Fractions of seconds. A hand stroked the outside of her bare thigh. Long tickling enticing trek. Infinitesimal hairs stood on end. Goosebumps flushed over skin.

"Sam." A warning.

Warm lips covered the inside of thigh.

"Sam." A demand.

"I can't help it." Words ghosted against skin. "You're so soft."

Lips swayed higher. Mid-thigh high. Higher. Book spine about to greet his skull. A pause. "Where did you get this scar from?"

"What scar?" Held novel level. Not a weapon at all. Leaned on thick shoulder sinews. Arms crossed over his chest. Examined the purple oblong. Dime-sized. Almost seven years old. Almost two years old. "Oh." Relaxed. Reopened book. "That's from the Epipens."

Thumb stretched violet skin to white. Snapped back. Violet. Body widened to lie down. Nose nuzzled the purple print. "Sarge hit the same spot twice?"

"Happenstance." Shrugged. Hand flattened against neck. Pulse danced. Emotional upset. Slow steady breaths.

Hot exhalations on her skin. Fogged the scar. Finger prodded the chasm from bullied muscle. A pause. Cheek against thigh. Leg ensconced by arm. "It scares me."

A sigh. Irritation. Divided book on nightstand. Caring but not caring. Not his problem. "What scares you?"

Jaw undulated on thigh. Hand encircled ankle. "Shrimp can kill you so easy."

Earlobe between fingertips. Repression of a sigh. Naivety maybe. "It's not just shrimp. It's shellfish. Ed used an oyster."

"Don't even joke about it Jules." Fingers gripped ankle. Tips calloused. Dry. Scratched. Another knee kiss. Body straightened. Revolved. Hands cupped cheeks. Lips pressed to lips. Opened. Closed. Flexed. Tip of tongue dipped in. Smacking sound reverberated. Nose touched nose. Thumbs stroked cheeks. Dry. Scratched. Hands tucked hair behind ears. Serene. Peacefulness. Worth. Mattering. "Don't joke, I don't know what—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Downplayed. Rested against pillow with book. Same sentence from before the TV.

Ten minutes passed. Body weighted against her. Inadvertent grin. Fingers drummed against neck. Lips pressed behind ear. Novel did the splits.

Distant voice. Eyes closed. Scribbled eyebrows. Curved mouth. "I'm falling asleep."

"I noticed."

"Mmm, I should move over." Raced fingers over his temple. Brushed hair back. Head heavy on her chest. "I don't want to crush you."

Scoffed. Repeated sex-based argument. "You're not going to crush me."

Hands gripped at thighs for support. Arms shook. Body rose. Hands grabbed waist. Yanked before mind comprehended. Clawed at bedspread and pillows. Dragged and rolled on top. Reversed positions. Guarded between two mountainous knees. Supported by a sturdy chest. Hands unnecessarily kneaded hips.

"Sam."

Hands stopped. Hand splayed over naval. Hand protected sacred scar. "Isn't this better."

"Both are nice." More comfortable. But better access to her neck.

Lips pressed against neck. Uncontrollable shiver. Thumb ticked against thigh. "At least you don't feel buried this way."

Nodded. Head fitted under chin. Perfection. Protection. Need and needed. Love and loved. Chapter never read.

"I can't." No more words. Hidden vocabulary. Archaic language. Lip nostalgic with local anesthetic.

"Okay." Hand stills. Deer eating foliage. "I'll go get a nurse and—"

"No." Head shake. Bad decision. Immediately regrettable. Eye pinballs. Dizzy inside.

"Jules, the nurse can—"

"Sam." Hasn't experienced it. Floating pity death masks. Anonymous sheltered prods. The empties. The door. The nurses. Rivers of gossip flooding eardrums. "I'll do it."

"You said you couldn't."

"I can." Defiance. Solitary. Branch off the Team. Different change room. Lesser genetic makeup. Makeup at all. You use a curling iron? You wear high heels? Why do you have lip gloss? There are tampons in your purse?

"Can I help you?" Tell. Tick. No infinity Jules. An interview. Twenty questions. Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can't ask do you want. Knows the answer. Endearing. Annoying. Disturbing.

Rolls clear shoulder. Toes fan. Wave on the floor. Apparitional moisture. Indoor monsoon. Crackle thunder. "I don't think anyone can."

"Jules." Bantam sentence. Calmness cloaks. Anger swirling. Clogging the drain. Remorse. Anguish. Search and rescue. Hand shrouds hand. Warm cold. Dry clammy. Thick thin. Rounded nails freshly cut. Not painted not painted. "Jules, please."

"Yeah." Voice a car over a cliff. Rubber bouncing rocks. Undercarriage flicking sparks.

"Okay." Hint of a smile in her mind. Same stoic deep browed expression. Spears crumbled t-shirt. Stares at her. Abstract art. The Fountain. "How much do you like this shirt?"

Multifaceted question. Implemental. Functional. Plain black. Hides stains. Smoothes curves. Workout shirt. Hasn't seen it in half a year. Locker room fight. After work rendezvous. Hotel room shower. Tiles digging into her back. "It's alright I guess."

"No, would you get angry if I overstretched the collar?" Fingers climbing in hole. Fingers clinging out. Material bunched to an o. "I don't want it to press on your bruises."

"Go ahead." Cramping maybe. Ebbs. Foot flexes. Cold water. Spilled water. Pooled blood. Base of skull pulses.

Fabric stretches. Material rips. Material ripped? Pajamas solid. Spotless. Not spotless. Bloody. Bagged. Biohazard. Rubber. No rubber. Sweater. Missing sweater. No sweater. Was wearing a sweater. Bathroom back door. Silver hook. Gray sweater. Had a gray sweater. Woke up without a gray sweater.

"Okay." Disappears behind her. Baby parlor tricks. Feels heat. Feels ionized. Feels indifferent. Still hurts. Gray sweater. "I'm going to undo the sling. Try to keep your arm in place with your left hand."

Hard plaster. Bumpy paper. Thumb knocks. No one's home. Pressure releases. Comfortable. Releases. Uncomfortable. Arm heavy. Pain stalking. Vinyl screeches. Sling incapacitated. "Okay, I have to—" Pause. Long pause.

Gown. Rudimentary physics. Gown must come off for shirt to go on. Waits. Nothing. A twitch. "For Christ's sake Sam, just undo it."

"I'm going to stand back here—"

"You do that."

"If you start to feel uncomfortable or—"

"I am pretty uncomfortable Sam, because I'm in a goddamn hospital. I just want to go home."

"Okay." Legion of okays. Fingers thread. Air hits back. Shiver. Didn't know there are still shivers. Peels back tissue paper fabric. Feels free. Slides down to breasts. Gathers it. Doesn't matter. He wants her to. To have. Reservations. Modesty. Shame.

"Stand really still." Lights out. Shaded. Tinted. Tiny bullet holes through fabric. Her old SRU uniform? Gray sweater. Thick collar glides. Safe from eye mass. Triangle nose. Harelip. Falls after her chin.

Shirt transforms. Straightjacket. Pulled over. Captures arms. Neck wrenches. Chin to shoulder. Questions unasked answered. Reappears in front. Dignity kept. To him. "Let me hold your right arm."

Weight shifted. Atlas coffee break. Firm underneath. Like Sarge's. Delicate. Left arm wiggles free of gown. T-shirt renaissance. Gown swings. One arm. Manipulation of arm hole. Gown slips off. Piles. Bulky cast punches through. Wearing a t-shirt.

Grins. Weak. Wobbly. Precarious. Front porch steps. Thick hand still cradling casted wrist. Sling swallows cast. Fingers restring vinyl. Arm braced. A ship sail. Blue eyes. Blue eyes just staring. Realization. Dart away. Hand leaves her. Clears his throat. Flooded engine. Waves crash on floor. Skull bouncing on hardwood. Gray sweater. "Where are your shoes?"

Wants to move immobile arm. Fix wisps of hair. Rub at existing eye. Toes curl. Retreat under sweatpant hems. "They took them."

"Who took them?"

"Evidence." No memories of lace tying. Of tongue depressing. Of soul meeting sole. But shoes were worn. Between 9-1-1 and paramedics. Shoes were worn.

"Oh." Kicks gown. Shoots under gurney. Hurdle for uncertain feet. Bends away. Sideways. Under chair. Retrieves elephant sneakers. Bulky socks. "I didn't have a pair of your shoes. But I brought those socks you liked. I thought they might help you keep the shoes on."

The socks. Old man socks. A wooly sweater condensed. Cold hotel room. Constant complaint. Gray and blue. Blue to gray. Knit and pearl.

"You just have to wear them out of the hospital. You can take them off in the car." Set at her feet. Glass slippers. Not going to fit. Consume her feet. Can't put them on anyway. Catches this. Understands this. A glance conveys. Hand taps gurney. "Sit down."

Left hand grasps waistband. Hips not stretching enough. Too much give. Tiptoed nudge to bed edge. Legs languid. Feet flaccid. Dangle.

Pant legs cuff. Pallid skin re-exposed. Thick sock rolled over left foot. Partner bunched. Rolled over right. Toes warm within. Huge running shoe hung on right foot. Christmas tree ornament. Weighs her body down. Toddler in a shopping cart. Laces reset. Tight. Loose but sturdy. Might work. Left foot gains a shoe. Fixed. "There, that's the best we can do."

Body tips forward. Lands on foreign soles. Unusual indents. Not her own. Not entirely unfamiliar either. Awkward.

"Can I—?" Directed at dipping waistband.

"Yeah." Needs to be knotted. Stationary as fingers encroach.

The tug at the sides. Hefting pants to proper areas. Gentle but. There. Just there. Everything there. Was there. Is there. Pushing down. Boiling. Unwelcome surprise. A cry. Not her own. But hers. Recoils. Sneaker kicks his leg. Thighs hit bed. Absorb impact. Transfer pain. Gurney jostles. Good hand steadies. Knees knock.

"Sorry. I—I'm so sorry." Hands fly up. Palms facing. Empty. Defenseless. Surrendering. Stands at a distance. Twitching. A broken plate. "I didn't mean—I mean. I just—"

"It's okay." Back straightens. Chest immolates. Devours itself. Huff. Black smoke. "You just—" Pause. Breathes. Needed breaths. Fan the fire. Smoke signals. Approaching troops. "Surprised me."

"It's my fault. I should have told you what I was going to do. I shouldn't just be doing things." Words spill. Alphabet soup on the floor. Lakes. Oceans. Salt water. Fresh water. Blood. Splatters. Splotches. "I—I shouldn't just be doing things." Record scratches. "I should've told you. I'm sorry."

"It's fine." And it is. Not a bold faced bruised up stitched looped nose lopped lie. Anamnesis. Reliance. Asylum. Never once forced a bad touch. Got angry. Got furious. Sweaty red faced fist balled ready to pummel objects in innate testosterone driven rage. Never physical. Always removed. Genetically presupposed army boy AWOL.

"No. I should be more—"

"Can you just tie it?"

"Jules." A pause. A nostril flare. Burst of air. Sinking ship. "I don't think—"

Drifts away. Sheets peel back. Leave creases through pants. Red slashes on black flesh. Streaks and strokes. Windshield wiper blades smudge color pallets of abuse. "My pants are going to fall down."

Idle. Without words. Hands drop to sides. "Okay."

Keeps the distance. The same distance. Like disarming a bomb. Can't have two men down wind. Emotional. Not thinking clearly. And you are? Extends ties. He hesitates. Ice skating and global warming. But fingers lightly pull and knot. Breathing is extinct. Double knot.

A deep breath. A sorrow imbued sigh. Fingers flex. "There."

Nods. Swell at the base of skull. Debilitated. Mere movements and debilitated.

"Do you need to sit down?"

"I need to go home."

"Okay."

Grabs her purse. Slit. Dissected. The only thing they didn't think was evidence. Scrambled before paramedics arrived. Wallet. Keys. Cell phone. Cell phone evidence. Blood on it. Thumb pad blood. Door props. Waits for her shuffle. Hallway lighter. Yellower. Harsher. Three nurses watch. Debase. Judge. Missing popcorn. Chick flick.

Hobbles, half folded. Arm encircling ribs. Shackled arm wanting equal rights.

"Are you okay to walk?" Voice low. Wavering. Theatrics reappearing. Panda slippers united in a civil union. Low laps around the recovery floor. Nostalgia. Unnerving her too.

"I'm fine." Shifts closer to him. Nurse parallels. Body half swallowed by counter and computers.

"I could get a wheelchair or—"

"I'm fine."

"Excuse me." Nurse halts them. Stops at the end of the station. Nurse aquarium. Flushes and flashes paper. "Did you sign these?"

Startles. Interrupts potential short lived argument. Sharp intake drills ribs to lungs. Punctures balloons. Pop. Hiss. High helium voice. Moan. Five-toed stumble. Back of head rests on side of thick bicep. Rapid breathing.

"Yeah." Heart jack hammering. Rage. Primal protective rage. Human hurdles. "I signed them already."

"So you're Sam Braddock?"

Hand rescues ponytail. Trapped in shirt. Forgotten in dressing marathon. Flips it once. Idiosyncrasies. Placates. "Yes."

"You can't be on hospital grounds."

"I know. I just had to sign her out. We're leaving."

"Well you can't be here. I have to phone the police."

"Look." Regains legs. Muscles ache. Undiscovered by seven years of 5am workouts. Stretch. Stick. Snap. "They're just going to let me out. And I'm just going to come back." Tugs on his hand. Gives her a glance. "She just wants to go home."

"That may be. But I'm still going to have to—"

"We're leaving okay?" Bottled voice cracks. Yanks on hand again. Finally follows. "He can't be here, and we're leaving. We're remedying your own fucking problem."

Cycle back. Adhere requests. Can't stop beaten body from shaking. Heavy panting. Surge of lost adrenaline. Targeted anger. Took her clothing. Treated anonymously. Imprisoned. Unsettled until elevator doors creep closed.

Travel three floors. Radio silence. Main lobby. No words. Nonsense. Legs start to shake. Each step a tremor. Reverberates. Quakes. Internal. External. Emotional. Wreck. Lags. Drags. Putters near double doors.

Retraces steps to find lost trinket. Doesn't know how to help. How touchy is personal. How impersonal is nothing. Abandoned. Accosted. Abused. And abandoned. We're all here Jules. Knew it was a lie. Just not how much.

Sluggish step and a whoosh. Cold air stirs at cotton pants. At bare arms. Jacket drapes around her shoulders. Feather snowfall. Weighty but welcomed. Outside a black SUV. Familiar. Better than a bike. Slow to work indeed.

"I don't think you can park here." Soles drag. Shave against pavement. Curve towards passenger's door.

"I don't think it matters anymore, Jules."

Motorized lock pops. Immobile shoulder joint. Door clicks. Chivalrous. Large seat. Wide range. Swallows her. Seatbelt slithers out of hand. Once. Twice. Fumble.

"Can I—" Fingers branch. Boughs waver in the wind. Gray skies sully. Impregnated with rain. Full. Swollen. Tarnished rust by bullied sun.

"Yeah." Relaxes head. Rest jabs smashed skull. Raises healthy arm. Halos. Body heat. Belt click. Adjusts coat. Folds collar. No tearing. No dragging. Hand lingers. Always lingers. Convenience store loiters. No smoking sign. Double double scented. Irises catch. Pause. Double lined. Everything pauses. Wiper ensconces ticket. Droopy grin. "You got tagged."

Groans. Door shut. Ticket ripped from wiper. No pause in steps. Muted. Softened. Driver's door opens. Wind marauds through cabin. Shoulder shrug. World rolls off. Lost in an ashtray full of lint and pennies. One expired roll-up-the-rim. Dust motes shimmer. Convene on black dashboard. "Are you going to contest it?"

Reaches into jeans. Jingle. Keys. Groan. Guttural. Not glottal. Unevolved. SUV rouses. Engine voiceless. New. Youthful. "Not really a reason to."

"I'll pay it."

"It's fine."

"I'm the reason you were parked—"

"Jules." Too harsh. For her. For him. Tongue softens. Reverts to marshmallow. Never meant to spit acid. Hands wring wheel. Loops through emergency entrance. Exit. "It's fine."

Flecks. Thump thump thump. Wipers screech up. Release voweled wails. "I got you a coffee, cream no sugar." Eyes straight. Narrow. Maybe tired. Tongue licks bottom lip. Wrenches turn signal. "And some bagel egg thing."

Light drizzle. No radio. Bumpless ride. Rocking. Mollifying. Eyes hooded. Road a pinpoint. "I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat something." A rare glance. Another turn signal. Click click click. Incessant.

Refocus. Traffic lights. Red. Blood on floor. Exploded veins. Stained skin. Cotton underwear. Cavernous living room. Looming. Prowling. Hunting. Stalking. Waiting. "I'll eat at home."

"I can pick you up something else if you want."

"I just want to go home."

"Okay." Light flashes. Arrow. Arrow. Arrow. Advanced green.

Coat bunches at shoulder. Conceptualized pillow. Provocative. Soft material caresses cheek. Unknown tactility. Vision blurs to refreshing darkness. Sounds mellow stagnant. A bump. Dark green and familiar fence. Ache. Pouring and constant ache. Verbal reflex.

"Sorry." Shift to park. Key off. SUV slumber. "You still haven't fixed your driveway?"

Jealous. Confused. Pained. Can't breathe. Breathes. Can't breathe. Aimed at torso. Rib constriction. Organ contusion. Flashbomb memories. "It was—" Straws air between miniscule slots in teeth. Air flow. Current. Pain ebbs. Pain returns. Pain ebbs. Pant. "On the list."

"Did they give you anything? Like a prescription?"

"Didn't want one."

Expects her name. A well-worded debate. The pros of narcotics during physical injury. Doesn't mean a Goddamn thing. A bullet never punctured his body. Tore through skin and veins, sinew and muscle, bones and organs only to fire out and bounce off the roof. Pennies off the CN Tower. He's never been physically restrained. Never been punched into oblivion. Never woken up knowing exactly what happened.

Purses his lips, and nods once. Exits the SUV without further conversation. Remembers the same expression from bars. From the odd guy approaching her. Harassing her. How his aggression actually became concrete one night. How she should have left him with the black eye and bar bill but didn't.

The wind is gentle by her house. Brushes. Consoles. The belt zips from the lock and he collects her purse. She stands, grows on bent legs. Uses the lip of the door for stability. Unknown shoed feet crunch on her driveway. Streams of rain slalom to the curb. Her thighs burn from within. Three layers of skin, into the muscles deep.

He walks at her pace. Arm slightly angled in case she needs a lifeline. Panda slippers. Sam's huge sneakers. Six months and all that's different is their sleeping arrangements. The rain sheens them. Enough to varnish their skin. Enough to just establish sticky clothing.

"Jules?"

"Yeah?"

Gray stairs creak, weakened by water, as they compute two bodies worth of weight. He steps up first, offers her a sturdy hand. Her left hand ghosts over the rickety railing. She regrets not fixing up her porch, injury be damned.

They stop at the ornamental door. He pries her purse open, assuming she'll go blindly fishing for the keys with one hand. She gestures for him to just retrieve the keys himself. Head is expanding, growing nauseous on itself.

One hand in her purse with a finger hooked around the keyring, he glances up over deeply furrowed brows. Hiding emotional riots. The bipolar dips between lamenting regret and burrowing wrath. His torment. His anguish. His shame. "You know who did it, don't you?"

Mouth runs dry. No moisture, no words. Remembers Sarge in the first hospital room. How her presence distilled him. Self-aware again of how the physicality of her presence changed him. Changes Sam now. Will change the rest of them.

She doesn't want to answer. It's a gamble. A game of Russian roulette. Say the wrong thing and watch a bullet blast through his head. Watch as he explodes to one end of the emotional spectrum. But he deserves something. He returned to retrieve her from the bowels of the hospital. No one else did. No one else even ventured in to see her. She put the brunt of psychological turmoil caused by repeatedly fucked up relationships with men on his shoulders and he carried it. And her. And didn't complain. And stopped for coffee.

"Yeah." Wants to roll her lips together. Give him some expression she could have made a day ago. But the muscles pull slack. "Yeah."

Doesn't say anything. Loss of moisture, of words maybe. Key jams into the door and the extras jingle jangle like a gospel. Grouped together. Protecting. Grieving the loss of the house key. It's how teams should be. The door sticks on the kickboard, but he shoves it. Anger diffusing. Keys, a reunited family, plop back into the open gulf of her purse.

"Jules, I—" mouth closes from his own hand. Gallops over his chin, the one day's growth growing there. She doesn't really approve of it. It makes him appear harsher than he is.

"What?"

"I think what I have to say, it goes without saying."

"Yeah." Attempts a smile, but the middle of her lip is an old tire swing on an elm tree. "It does."

And it does. She knows he'll be preoccupied with her wellbeing, just like he was after she was shot. She thinks it has something to do with buried family roots. Covert Braddock secrets carried in a leather-bound book. Secrets she wasn't privileged too when they were in love. Maybe he means he'll be there for her. Maybe he thinks he always was. He wasn't. Not after Lew's death when another chunk of her chest was shot out. Not when—

"What's that smell?" The front door is closed. Bolted, chained. Like it will do much.

But somehow she's inside her house. The mail pyramided on the distressed end table. The flawless, squeakless stairs. The kitchen archway where a black fly in her vision led to her not being able to see out of one eye. Sealed the other partway with blood.

"What smell?"

The gaping hole in the wall bashed by her head. She thinks it was her head. Did she duck once? It's half hidden by filtering tropical canopy light through linen curtains. Wonders if the back of her head is as bad as the dry wall appears.

"It smells like chemicals in here. It's really strong. You can't smell that?"

Sam hasn't noticed yet. Hasn't noticed how one part of the floor is a little duller than the others. How none of the pictures are on the wall. How vacant rectangles outline where they should be. How the massive armchair she never sat in once is gone.

"I don't have that much of a nose to work with, Sam."

"Your nose looks fine." He places her purse in its rightful home under the end table. Then slaps the wall light. Everything is altered under bright beams from spotlights. The variations are miniscule. Monumental enough for her to notice because she lives here, because she lived through it.

Monumental enough for him to notice because for a brief time, he sort of lived here too. "No."

"Sam."

"It happened here."

"Sam." Awkward left arm reaches for him, to settle him. In some fucked up role reversal, she's about to comfort him.

"No. It happened here. You knew and you let me bring you here anyway." His chest begins to puff, bloating with emotion. Face is flushing, pupils unfocused. An unusual instance of panic.

Left hand finally hooks around his wrist. Anchors him in one spot. Voice calm, slow, concise. "Sam, this is my house."

He shakes his head, but his breathing regulates. No longer shooting streams like a hot air balloon. "Jules, you can not stay here."

"This is my house."

"It's not just the psychological aspect of it. You need someone to help you." Captures her hand within his. Spilt in two. Part of her needs to embrace the regularity of having him around. Of having a sound body to support hers when she cannot. The other half remembers what she lost last time she gave into domestic desires. "Can you even walk up the stairs by yourself? Get undressed? Have a shower? Lift a hand above your head?"

"I'll survive."

"There's more to it than that."

"Like?"

He exhales loudly. Like she's forcing him, gun to temple, to say what he's about to. "I know you want to be independent, but this guy did this to you when you were healthy. You can't take him on now."

"Sam, I'm not leaving."

"You can't stay here."

"So you've said."

"You can get a hotel room. At least for a few days. Or you can stay with me. I have an extra room." He's moving fast again, gravitating with her towards the stairs. "You should pack while I'm here, just for a—"

Reclaims her hand. Not really a wrench. Doesn't have the energy for a wrench. Swirls of pain generate themselves all over her body. Concentrating themselves until different paced pulses thread against each other, trying to knock out the leader. Recognizes Sam's familiar behaviors like they have faces she can pick out in a crowd. Demanding something for her, when it's really for him. Parasitic benefits. "I think you should leave now."

"What?" Stops on the second stair. Eyebrows sliding in confusion, fear, hopeful miscommunication. "No, you need help."

Shuffles to the door. To where he returned her purse. To how he knows her perfectly. Tries not to get distracted by false sentiments. Instead remembers when she shakily asked him to just sit and talk with her. Because she needed a familiar face. Because she just saw Lew's head smash into a concrete overpass. Because she needed to feel safe and Sam was the only person who ever left her feeling protected. Instead he sneered her away. Like all the other men in her life, biologically linked and others alike. So she shook alone. And threw up in the 'Jules' locker room alone. And sat on the cold tiles alone until Sarge noticed she was missing.

Remembers when she phoned him just after they broke up. Phoned him repeatedly like an invalid because something happened and she couldn't go through it alone. How she thought he loved her. How he was always there for her before. It was her greatest moment of need. Fuck getting shot, or beaten, or raped. How he didn't answer her calls or her messages. How she went through it alone. "You've done enough."

Slowly he marches off the stairs. Head bowed, disengaged from his body. Giving in immediately because of what happened. Two days ago if this same conversation occurred, there would have been an argument outlasting any major political debate. He stops just before the door, before the dilapidated porch, before the light October drizzle. "Please Jules; you shouldn't be alone, especially here."

"Goodbye Sam." His back hunches into the soft weather doming around her porch. "Don't come back here until you start caring about things other than yourself."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Shit goes-wrong story. Only two POVs. A meeting is held and Jules gets a visitor. Plus the first ever flashback within a flashback. Flashception. <em>


	7. Six Fiery Satellites

_A/N: Hey Guys, hopefully we don't get a long ass wait, but if we do, I apologize for my part in it.  
>Don't think I have any review questions to answer because I'm pretty sure I answered them all ready (and then some). Just some general info: Up to chapter 11 has been planned (it is nowhere near the last chapter so don't worry) and chapter 8 will be the worst writing experience of my life.<br>Thanks to all to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favorited and of course, read. You know who you are and I'm sitting here slow hand applauding you. I'd stand up, but everything from below my waist has gone asleep from read-throughs.  
>As always if you have any questions or concerns please feel free to PM me. <em>

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 7

Six Fiery Satellites

Eight in the morning. The a pre-shift. The normal corralling of the seven—six—five members of Team One and delivering the agenda for the day. Today we're doing ride-a-longs. Groans. Today's slow so we're going to run some drills. Groans. Today we're going to start off in the workout room. Groans. He's made them clean before. A long time ago, he made them clean because of the backtalk. He's not afraid to do it again.

Twenty-four hours without sleep. A full routine complete in a diurnal blink. Two newspapers on his welcome mat. Neither with news commanding his attention, his actions, his emotions, or the preset basis of his being. Twenty-four hours and the sun rises and falls and rises again. Cyclical. Doesn't stop. Arrogant and ignorant to what's happened. A bystander who turns a deaf ear to a cry of help.

Twelve hours ago everything was fine. Not fine, they were adjusting. Not the same. Never would be the same. A little bit of hurt oozing out of a bullied wound. Scabbed over and picked at. Lew was gone. They woke up and it hit them a little later in the day, every day. Cyclical. Hit him yesterday when his feet hit the cold hardwood floors. Usually happened at the first glance at the clock. No work. Why no work. Incomplete team. Why incomplete team. Lew died. Why died? Because—

Twelve hours ago Jules was across from him at the table. Her thumb circled the lip of her beer bottle. She was quiet. Was she quiet? It was a bar. They were at a bar. So she must've been quiet. There's no doubt in his mind, on the Team, on the job, she can handle her own. She voices her opinion when necessary. Sometimes like all of them, lets emotions cloud her judgment and voices her opinion anyway. She repels the fastest because she weighs the least; she shoots with better accuracy than Sam. But in Team social functions she keeps to herself, unless the Team splits generationally.

He's never taken offence to her silence or her lack of conversation because she'll talk if he engages her. He knows the reasons why. Doesn't really, but has an idea. Uses job taught skills to formulate answers. A mutated hazing gone awry coupled with her obscure past. Last night he didn't pry. Didn't inveigle. Just watched the hurt pool behind barren eyes as she kept flicking her finger around the bottle mouth. She could have exploded, just like Lew, and no one else at the table would have noticed.

Only, she placed a reassuring hand on Spike's shoulder when she left. Gifted him a smile to match. He's not angry at the generational gaps within the Team. It's really their own fault for instigating hurtful hazing techniques resulting in injuries, antidotes and epipens. Knows Lew wasn't hazed because of her. Knows Sam wasn't hazed because of her. Knows once the older crowd retires, hazing will too. This is why he doesn't mind the gap.

"You did say eight right?" Ed's head hangs between his knees. His voice echoes through the locker room. Team Three is on shift and out on a call. The remains of other people's personalities litter the area like an unkempt mausoleum. A half-full Timmy's cup. A pair of unlaced Nikes.

To other people, the gap is a dangerous fissure. Spurts hot water and steam. Burns and maims and haunts with the intent of deformation. "Yeah Eddy, eight."

"Maybe they're just running a little late." Wordy's beside Ed. Two opposite forces who somehow became best friends. Two hues of the same color, just each a little more preoccupied with different shades. His voice is softer than usual, probably from not being able to sleep. He should have had the psychologist on call in case any of them wanted to talk. Always a heartbeat too late.

"They're always running a—"

"Eddy." Keeps a serene face. An unbroken face though the inside of his body is crossed wires and toothless cogs. "Just take it easy. Remember why we're here."

"Exactly, you'd think they'd have enough common decency to show up on time. That's if they show up at all. Like they have something more important to do today. "

Ed does have a point. A barely rational point. In times of need, the younger faction of Team One grows scarce. Become existent only through the abstract notions of acquaintances. Ed's idea of bringing tough love to the Team is circumvented because he always forgets the younger members haven't been on the SRU for as long. Haven't seen as many things they have, as many bodies pancaked against the pavement. As many bullets self-inflicted into brains.

Remembers how the Team deflected away from each other in first hours after Lew's death. How they all witnessed the same event, the same tragic disembodiment of their teammate, and yet the younger portion of the Team became immediately unavailable. Some for obvious reasons, others secretive. It's his place to know without asking as the Sergeant. It's his place to ask without forethought as a friend.

Sat beside Spike for twenty minutes in the seclusion of the locker room. Knew he had to say something. Eventually they both did. He would have to address the Team because he was the Boss. Spike would have to speak. Maybe he wouldn't. They'd deal with that issue when it did or didn't happen.

Until then silence consumed the room. His back slouched and his mouth disappeared into a sweaty, ungloved hand that smelled vaguely like metal. Spike sat straight. Ramrod straight. Sunday morning church pew straight. Eyes unwavered from Lew's locker even in tear crowded vision. Even when they became jumpers. He would go through the locker later.

"Spike." Placed a hand on his shoulder and received no indication the warming gesture was received. No indication he was still alive in the defensive shell his body became. Knows what it's like to lose someone, lose a teammate. Jules is the first to be injured. Really injured. Shot and beaten and—and still come out with a heartbeat.

"I'm going to go get the others." Doesn't like to say guys. Stopped saying guys when she joined because he's politically correct, or tries his hardest to be. Sure it's a colloquialism, a slang even, but over everything they're a Team. He pressured this when he overruled the 'against' vote to place her on Team One seven years ago. Patted catatonic Spike again for reassurance. His. His own. Just needed to care for them. All of them. Eddy and Wordy too. Because he lost one of them. On his duty he lost one of them.

Staggered out into the raucous hallway where Teams Two and Four waited for their active duty. Fourteen tall, muscular men watched the television screen as the CBC evening news aired and reaired different footage of the landmine explosion downtown. He didn't know there were cameras. Didn't even see them. Was too busy using his fingers to account for his Team.

Ed and Wordy were in uniform. He usurped the locker room to deal with Spike and shooed the others away. Lead sheep into a fenced pasture. Not a real pasture. Not a real shepherd. They camouflaged well. Wolves in sheep's wear.

Rolie, the Sergeant of Team Two for almost two years, stood beside them. All three faces held an equal amount of shocked stoicism while they watched the high definition flashes of Lew exploding and re-exploding in slow motion. The constant be kind, rewind of the footage desensitizing.

"Eddy." His voice was a little hoarse with emotion as he beckoned. A little dry from inhaling smoke particles and that's all. A little sore from trying to nudge Spike to talk. Spike, who normally doesn't stop.

"Sorry about your boy, Boss," Rolie spoke to the floor as he brushed by. Faded into the shifting pattern of the crowd to be with his Team. Maybe to count them on his fingers for security.

"I need to call a team meeting. We need to talk about what's going to happen next." Knew already mandatory time off would be given. Time that should be spent together because a lot of them live alone. Time spent trudging through memories and emotions packing around their feet and knees like wet snow. Holleran already approved at least a week while trial replacements ran.

"Greg." Eddy crossed his arms, mouth an unwavering river. Straight and set and ridged in its motions predetermined by the Earth. "You have to do something about the footage."

"What if Lew's parents don't know yet?" Wordy was more diffused. Emotions collided and waltzed. Eyes triangles of despair. Had it only been an hour? Traffic and then he sat with Spike for twenty minutes. Maybe just a little more than an hour. Maybe two. Maybe a whole other day happened and they just didn't notice. Just like the sun didn't notice them.

"I'll talk to Sidney about calling public relations." From the corner of his eye caught the fourth or fifth replay of Lew shrouded in smoke blasting upwards like a rocket into a concrete overpass. In slow motion. In slow motion felt every bone in his body break. Hoped his neck broke on impact. Hoped it was quick and merciful like a shot to the brainstem. Bitter sludge coated his tongue. "Right now I need you two to go back into the locker room and sit with Spike."

"How is he?"

"Quiet. Still. Catatonic. Hasn't said a single thing since he screamed." Took a good fifteen minutes to collect him off the ground. To build Michelangelo Scarlatti up enough so he could walk to a passenger's seat in a rig. He drove him back. Ed drove Jules and Wordy because Sam left with the third rig. "Have you seen Sam or Jules?"

Ed pointed to a concrete pillar. It's segregated from the rest of the bustling room. As the SRU watched repeatedly while one of their own fell, it created the same jam highways gained after a horrific traffic accident, Sam leaned with his back to them. Arms crossed in a gesture exuding an air of defiance, maybe even arrogance. A person, a teammate would notice how uncomfortable he was with the situation.

"Jules talked to him for a second and then disappeared. Check her locker room."

He nodded; too busy observing Sam to comprehend the unnoteworthy sentence. Watched Eddy and Wordy worm their way through the crowd and into the locker room. He cut around the edge of the group, saved time by not bumping into anyone else who offered their condolences when he didn't deserve them. He shouldn't have let Lew go out there. Lew wasn't the bomb expert, Spike was. Spike shouldn't have gone out there either. What could he have done? There had to have been something that—

"Sam—"

"Can we leave yet?" Eyes traced the carpet from above a flaring nose. Landed on the heels of shoes. On stray laces. On cuffed pant hems. Anywhere but the TV.

"Soon Buddy." Kept his voice calm. Understood the anger. Imagined Sam was the only one out of all of them who might understand. From Afghanistan. Lost friends. Lost teammates. Lost brothers. "I just want to get the Team together in the locker room for quick chat."

"Sarge." Shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. Blue eyes flitted up from the floor and darted away just as quick. "I can't be here much longer. Not with this. With them. I need to leave."

"Everyone copes in different ways. I get that." Didn't go as far to do the friendly shoulder pat with Sam. He wasn't the type. Spike needed recognition. Had a father who didn't appreciate his abilities to help other people, his prowess with computers, his genius with chemicals and bombs. Sam knew he was good at what he did. Sam had self-confidence. Sometimes too much of it, which is what got him in trouble. "It'll only be a few minutes more, but until then, remember that the way you act affects other people."

"Fine." Didn't nod. Not an agreement. Just pushed off the support column in a lumbering stomp. The army remnants clear in straight limbs. In the way his arms swung while he almost marched. In his stern, emotionless face.

Before he took too many steps. Before Sam couldn't hear him, or before he was just far enough away to pretend not to hear him, he questioned, "Do you know where Jules is?"

"I don't care."

Had his back turned by the time the locker room door crashed off the wall. Knew Sam would wait patiently inside with the rest of the Team. Knew because he was good at listening and not questioning orders. Knew Jules wouldn't leave. Not without his approval. Not because she was good at taking orders, but because she respected him. Knew she wouldn't have woven herself into the sea of men. Knew that left one other place for her.

Told Sidney to call public relations. See if they couldn't do something about not showing Lew's death every two minutes on the national news. He died like a hero. He deserved to be treated with the value of a hero, not smeared like some late night reality show star. Sidney nodded solemnly, already connecting the call on his headset. He grabbed the spare set of keys. The dispatcher gave him a cocked eyebrow, but didn't say a word. He needed them in case she locked herself in. She was always so careful about locking doors.

"Jules?" Rapped softly on the door which no longer held her name. Remembered the time when officially sectioning the room as a women's locker room was an SRU hot topic debate issue. He disagreed and made them clear out all the boxes which rightfully belonged in third storey storage. It was ready by the time she arrived complete with the sarcastic 'Jules' sign. They could have been a little more welcoming.

"Jules?" Jiggled the doorknob and found it locked which meant she was sealed inside or she left. "I'm going to come in Jules, let me know if it's not okay."

The door opened silently from ill use. Offered up a cold, dark cavern because the lights are motion activated. The department installed them as a tax deduction while Jules was recovering from being shot. She complains about constantly having to wave her arms or the lights go out when she does her makeup. The guys joked with her about it being an improvement.

He thought she left. She had to be gone. The room was freezing. So dark. So unwelcoming. Qualities opposite to what she embodies. The dim light through high frosted windows allowed a gray stylization which added to the morose tone. Dust motes shimmered and shifted with his breaths. He couldn't imagine why she would want to be in here.

But then he noticed her purse on the ground beside the bench. It was half splayed open, it's entrails a hiccup away from shooting out. It was dropped and left. Just left on the tiles. In the dust. In the darkness. In the cold.

After three steps the first light flickered to life. Hummed in a pained moan above him. In the blinking spotlight he caught sight of her foot. Of the size eight police shoe. Heel flat on a tile. It was partnered with the opposite foot. Both folded together like praying hands. From what he could tell she was sitting on the floor against one of the vanities.

"Jules?"

Her feet jolted at the call of her name. Reeled back behind the security of the partition. The action had an innocence which almost brought a grin to his face. Almost like she was hiding. Remembered when Dean used to hide when he came home from work, and the giggles would give away his location. But he knew her childhood wasn't like that. Knew if she was hiding, it was for a different reason.

Stepped lightly over barely travelled tiles. Two more lights blinked on. Found her jammed between the wall and a garbage can. Her knees collapsed into her chest with her chin resting on top of them. Arms hugged them tightly. Her hair was still in a ponytail; she still had on the gray pants, but was down to a simple black t-shirt. Her pale arms shook a bit, probably from the temperature, maybe from shock.

"Hey Jules." Bowed a little before her and was surprised when her eyes cycled up to meet his. She was cognitive at least. Understood more than Spike. He didn't judge any of them, her, Spike, Sam. Even Wordy and Ed's lack of reaction because they all have different ways of dealing with death. "What are you doing in here?"

Didn't answer him. Dropped her chin further into her arms like an animal being scolded. He sighed. A passive sigh expressing the want to understand. The willingness too if she ever wanted to express anything to him.

His hand slid over the chrome exterior of the garbage can. Fingers hooked on the side and he lurched once to move it away from her, to take its place. But her hand shot out quickly, and rooted it to the ground. "I got sick."

"Oh." He let the can go and it rattled a bit on its rim until it settled. Instead he sat in front of her. Waited for her to add further commentary, but she didn't speak a single word. He couldn't even hear her breathe.

"Are you okay? I mean—" Huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose because none of them were okay factoring in the situation. Wanted to know if she was physically okay. Wanted to know if he even had the right to ask it. As a friend? As a boss?

She released a small exhalation. Voice gravelly and hushed in the empty room. "I just kept crying. And I couldn't catch my breath. Then my ribs hurt and I got sick."

"That's okay." Felt his heart fall a foot in his chest at the mention of her ribs. Still a soft topic for her. For him. For everyone because they were all present the day a bullet clear cut through her and her vest. "That's—That's okay."

"Is Spike okay?" Her knees started to unwind from her chin, her head elevated a bit at the question.

"Spike's fine." Dropped his hand to the cold tiles on the ground beside him. Fingers rested in the grimeless grout between. "He's with Ed, and Wordy, and Sam. Right now I'm more concerned about you."

Knees fully unscrewed, her legs stretched out before him. He glanced sideways at her face and found the first emotion since the team arrived back at headquarters. Her bottom lip lumped and shook, her nose twitched and her eyes gleamed. The lights flickered out from lack of mobility between them. "I don't understand Sarge."

"What don't you understand?"

"Lew was alive. And now he's not. And I saw him die. But I don't understand that he's not alive. I know he's not alive, but I don't understand it. Because he was alive and now he's not. And I saw it. I saw it and I don't get it. And there was supposed to be dancing."

The crevices of emotion, the wrinkles of sentiment, they divided; they matured on her face until she couldn't control them. Conquered her whole appearance as she gasped out a cry. Hand shot up to blackout her eyes. Tears danced and shimmered like dust motes in an underused locker room.

"Hey." Forgot about her. About the type of person she is, and what he thinks she experienced in her past. Just reacted the way he would have reacted around anyone he saw in her state shoved in an alcove beside a garbage can. Reached forward and brought her shuddering form towards him. Her body remained slack for a moment before accepting his embrace and slid across the floor. He felt her chest heave. The small gasps she cried almost silent. Just held her until she settled because the Team is a family and families comfort each other.

"I don't understand it either, Jules." He didn't. Still doesn't. Doesn't understand how they could all get up that morning. All six members of his team, well seven but he never included himself because he's a firm believer in the proverbial 'the Captain goes down with the ship'. But then in that locker room while he hugged her with a hand inadvertently over the patch of her back which blew away four months earlier, he only needed one hand to count his team. Now he can lose a digit and still count them.

But she collected herself. Eyes puffy and red as she swiped at them with the heel of her hand. Didn't laugh nervously, just lowered her head in embarrassment. Like shed tears were unnatural. Something to be shamed. She detached from him then. In more than just physical shifting. Boarded up emotions the rest of the Team couldn't appreciate in her body like it was a condemned house.

Before he could ask her, she answered, "I'm fine."

He stood. Wiped his hands on the sides of his pants, ironed seams indented with wrinkles. Offered her a hand up. "You know, if you're ever—" Paused when her cold hand touched his. That was what was unnatural. Not shed tears at a teammate— a friend's death. The need to keep it covert in a refrigerated locker room. "If you're ever not fine, you can tell me. Whether it's about this, or—"

"I know." She took the first step and the lights didn't flicker on. Not until he moved to follow. Halfway to the door when she stooped to grab the strap of her purse, she added, "Thank you."

So they gathered in the men's locker room. A team of six people scattered in such a small space. None really wanted to be around the others, but had to because of the situation. It's how the next week and a half played out until the booze, plagiarizing in joviality, bled away to actual camaraderie and communal enjoyment.

He explained he would contact them sometime tomorrow morning with further details and if anyone needed to talk for any reason they could call him. At dismissal, Sam was the first to leave, burst by Jules, who was situated at the mouth of the room as she moved in to talk to Spike. They didn't even acknowledge each other and he knew something happened, but if neither of them brought it up, it wasn't his business.

Ed told him Spike still hadn't said a single syllable. Hadn't replied to any questions or physical prodding. Had barely even blinked. Ed and Wordy shifted to gather their belongings and he turned back to Jules.

She sat beside Spike; her hand gently circled his wrist. Her head bowed very close to his, cheek almost rested on his shoulder. Her lips moved but he couldn't hear the words she spoke over the reverberations of lockers. Spike blinked once. Stiffly nodded and the corner of his mouth distorted into a fragment of a smile. They left separately afterwards.

He thinks moments like that, of serenity among the chaos, of rampant compassion, is one of the reasons he loves the younger part of the Team. Sure the Team is a family, but the older guys are friends. The younger members are proxies for Dean, for the other kids he'll never have. It's his job to help them out and offer them the support, respect, reassurance and the praise they don't receive elsewhere. Sometimes experience isn't a good thing.

No one should ever get used to it. To some things. To most things. Sometimes he just needed a little help forgetting. Forgetting things in Homicide. The lifeless body of a strangled toddler, heavy like a lead blanket and blue with lividity. Gang shootings like a loaded AK-47 spun around the dance floor at a club until it sizzled to a stop. Domestic abuse cases where the police arrived an hour too late. Thirty minutes too late. Fifteen. Five.

Guilt isn't something that crumbles at the refreshing words of a priest. Or from performing so many altruistic actions. Every life saved doesn't equal every life stolen. Not even close. It's why he started drinking and lost his family. Why he understands the way the Team copes and tries to keep them together as a whole organism. Drinking alone leads to negation. Leads to segregation and the Team is the only family he has now. It's why he doesn't want to see them ruin their personal lives.

It's why he let her go when she wanted to. Jules isn't much of a drinker, socially or alone for what he can discern are familial reasons. She doesn't talk about herself much. He's known her seven years, trusts her with his life. Knows she trusts him with hers, yet he barely knows anything about her before she joined the SRU. She doesn't drink socially with the boys, with Ed and Wordy or Rolie, when he was part of the Team. Sometimes Spike or Sam joined. Lew too. But Jules would politely excuse herself most of the time.

Whenever she did venture out for choir practice, the unloading of the day in the form of semi-heavy drinking and complaining about everything from the shift, to politics, to partners, she was always eerily quiet. Just sat in a chair, hand curled around a mug of frothy beer staring into the suds while Ed complained about Sophie's parents or Wordy about Shelly's. After awhile they just stopped inviting her. No one seemed to mind, including Jules.

It's why he drank alone last night. Grew deaf to Spike's incessant questions, and almost shoved him from the moving car. Drove to the SRU, where he first laid his eyes on the report. The report from Roy, with statements from her. The overly detailed medical reports. Medical reports complete with pictures to scale with a right angled ruler. Pictures that made him vomit. Something he hasn't done since Homicide.

Saw a picture of the perpetrator, Scott, for the first time. A mug shot from a previous arrest for a drunk and disorderly six months ago. The first time he actually threw a chair in the briefing room. The first time he sobbed openly in years. The first time he bought alcohol in just as many. Needed something to dissolve the guilt. Bury it for a few hours so he could get a little sleep.

It's why he didn't get any sleep. The guilt was omnipresent, like the reincarnation of the need for alcohol. Existence without it was unsure and painful. Felt guilty because his pain was incomparable to hers, yet he was alone and suckling on a bottle while she remained in a hospital. He abandoned her for his own gain. Hasn't done something like that since Homicide. But everything in the last two weeks has been getting to him. He feels guilty she was the straw.

"Just start Greg." Scarlett-eyed and mumbling, Ed barely lifts his head to create their conversation. None of them want to be there. Under this circumstance or any other. The Team was doing well in the lapse of Lew, was beginning to stitch scars. But Jules—It came too quickly, they all know in hindsight there was so much more.

"I talked to Holleran last night. Trials for a seventh member are going to continue as planned and should be completed by the end of the week." Six candidates out of a dozen, six athletically viable psychologically trained candidates who could easily replace Lew in the blink of an eye. Who could be super imposed to walk away from a landmine as the debris and limbs settled. It's not meant to be like that, but the world has to keep its cycle. "But we agreed not to search for a replacement for Jules."

"So we're going to be a six man team?"

"Six person team, yeah." Nods, bare hands sweat around the folder. Doesn't want to be holding the folder any longer. Wants to burn it. Wants to hide it. Wants to do the opposite. Flaunt the contents so everyone is aware. Part of the reason he risked reprimand. "We can deal with the loss of power until Jules recovers. I didn't want the same thing that happened with Donna to happen again."

At her name, Ed shifts. Straightens out his back, clears his throat once. Wordy's eyes flicker to his friend. "What do you mean?"

"Jules has proven she belongs on this team. Twice now. She has a spot here waiting for her if she wants to come back to it." Remembered their conversation before. How Ed fought to keep Donna on the Team. How Jules did nothing wrong. Was and did sacrifice so much more to remain on the team. "No one is going to fill it. Not even temporarily."

"I just thought Donna was a better fit."

"And I don't think it was Jules' fault she got shot on duty."

"No, but other things were."

The door whispers open. The action, or the noiselessness of it, decapitates the potential argument. Maybe it's his appearance. He's the youngest, but he looks like hell. Looks like he's lived more years, more separate lives, than all of them combined in a single night. Face white, eyes clashing in russet, like metal prematurely oxidized. They're painful to look at. He already has visible stubble.

He glides into the room. Doesn't create a sound. Not the friction of his jeans. Not the soles of his shoes. A wide gait rests him in a niche, tired face hanging. "Sorry I'm late."

"Glad you could find the time to make it."

"I was busy doing something. I didn't check my phone until a couple of minutes ago and that's when I got the message."

"Well maybe if you weren't so busy beating—"

Wordy's hand falls to Ed's shoulder, settling him before another argument can erupt. Simple soundless actions preventing misplaced anger. Bleeding patience clotted by a simple gesture. "How is Jules doing?"

An easy question. A fallen teammate in which to bond. Over sorrow. Over regret. Over guilt of course. Over a glass. Or a pint. Or a bottle. But Wordy's question, his humane eyes are directed at him. Clearing his throat he finds a lump of congealed mucus rolling on the back of his tongue. It tastes vaguely like the scotch he drank last night. Everywhere a reminder of everything he's broken. He swallows it. "I don't know how she is. When I went to go see her this morning, the nurses told me she'd been signed out."

"Wait, you didn't stay with her?"

"Who signed her out?"

And his eyes drift from Wordy, looming tall with a wrecked expression. Crashing eyebrows and distressed triangles. To Ed, preoccupied with glaring at something. Someone. Following his line of sight he finds it's Sam.

"You signed her out?"

"She wanted to be."

"You signed her out of the hospital?"

"You guys abandoned her there after—"

"You hit a doctor and had to—"

"Shut up." Something in him finally snaps. Doesn't know if it's the building up of the last day. Or the last two weeks. Or the last seven years. Or the last ten years. Just slams the open palm of his hand into a locker. Listens to the clunk. Hears the echo, the noise answering itself. The repetition as the room empties itself of all other sounds. "Jesus Christ just shut up for a single second."

All three men are staring at him. Not so much in shock as in a respectful stillness waiting for him to say what needs to be said so they can get back to bickering about things they have no say in. Things they aren't the experts in. Things that their engagement in manufactures waves of offense.

The lips of his thumb and forefinger mask his brow. Offer a shadow to his face as he wrenches his eyes shut and turns away from them. He's never been good at disciplining. Not when sober. Home. Then kitchen table half lit in tinny morning light. Bottle of scotch still half full beside a stained glass with melted ice cubes. The simple wants in life.

"Something happened to one of us last night. Something I can't and don't even want to imagine and yet you just keep fighting about things that don't even matter anymore."

"What are we supposed to do?"

Cheap brown folder from the dollar store. He stole it out of the receptionist's desk when no one was watching. After he photocopied what he shouldn't have. After he saw and read what he shouldn't have. After a member of the closest thing he'll ever have to a family was violated and he had to read about it in complete sentences.

"She wants to be left alone, Sarge."

Complete sentences. Commas and periods in ghastly literary description. When he couldn't take Roy's cursive any longer, when he realized each of the long-handed swirls stroking down meant another thrashing on Jules' body he flipped the page. Found pictures. Found pictures and threw up in a garbage can. She threw up after Lew died. It was a normal reaction.

Doesn't have the original folder. Not the one with her photos and her statements completely complacent and lacking her voice. Those aren't her words. Those aren't her statements because that's not her. It will never be her again, because she may get better but she'll never be the same. The words she spoke, lipped, and repeated like a parrot or an answering machine message. There are statements from the nurses who said she didn't speak unless addressed. Answered curtly, in one or two words. Generally in the negative 'no'. But she was sure of one thing. Who it was.

It's not really against protocol, but it definitely isn't their jurisdiction. They're SRU; they deal with hostage situations or bombs. They don't deal with rapes, especially when it conflicts personally. It's why he doesn't have the original folder. Had the folder in his hands. The official folder in its laminated glory down at the proper division. Russ Grant, the Sergeant of the Sexual Assault Squad returned from a brief sojourn while he was left unsupervised with the folder.

Russ tapped his pudgy fingers nervously against his desk. Still not really sure he should see the contents of the folder. After a few minutes and a silhouette drifting by the door, he tried to snatch the folder, but the lamination poured out of his sweaty hands.

"Greg, I let you see it. It's been twenty minutes. You have to go now."

Took out a picture. A certain picture he wasn't ashamed to look at. A picture he wanted seared underneath is eyelids. "I need a copy of this."

"Greg—"

"Give me a copy of this and I'm gone."

That's how he got a pilfered photocopy of Scott's mug shot and statistics. His dark eyes, hiding under thick, looming eyebrows. His hair spiked up in knots. The thin line of hair trailing his jaw. Read he was six feet tall. Six feet tall and thought even if she shot him it would be like shooting a bear. Different angles mean different things. Could've shot him in the forehead and missed his brain by a solid inch of muscle and bone. Despite everything Jules is and is to him, she never stood an equal chance.

Opens the folder, four distinct fingerprints of sweat remain on the cover. "I'm showing you this for the same reason I wanted to see it. So we don't feel like we're not doing anything."

"You have a picture of—" Sam steps forward. Eyes clear and engaging as he nods to the folder. Squabble forgotten. Everything up until that point forgotten just for a few seconds.

"This isn't so we can go vigilante." Stares into the three separate pairs of blue eyes. To punctuate his statement. To gestate it. To make sure they know if they do enact homemade justice, he's not sticking up for them. Sam receives longer eye contact than the others. Knows he normally goes missing, chooses the avoidant method. But senses this might be the thing to switch his coping capabilities. "This is just so we can keep an eye open."

Hands the mug shot to Ed. Wordy and Sam sort of gather around him and for the briefest of moments there's a reappearance of cooperation. Of the alliance bonding them all before two weeks ago. The family he always assumed would stand the test of time, but becomes fragile when they need to rely on each other the most. Sparks and self immolates with a certain equation of words.

Knows all three of them are scanning the face, memorizing Scott the same way he did. Knows after they leave the locker room today if they ever encounter Scott on the street, they won't need a double take. Wordy doesn't say anything. Just shakes his head. Only shakes his head probably at the towering height or weight amassed purely in muscles.

Sam doesn't say a word. Doesn't react. Doesn't allow an emotion to cross his face. Except for his eyes. His eyes collapse. Blue irises tainted and discolored by barriers. A protective division perhaps on how much he's willing to let himself attribute to reality. Only let a little in because it's all he can handle. He'll have to make sure the file never finds its way to Sam. Will keep a tight restraint on it for Jules' sake. But knows what it did to him, can't imagine what it could do to Sam.

"Boss," Ed's eyes narrow as he observes the picture. Readjusts it. Sam turns away, paces before a row of lockers. Wordy watches the ground, or his shoe bouncing against the floor, or the abandoned Nikes. "I think I've seen this guy."

Heads shoot up simultaneously. Sam stops pacing. Wordy's foot stills.

"What do you mean Eddy?"

"Last night." Ed rubs at his eyes again and stares back at the picture like it might come alive and just turn itself in. Like that would solve any of their problems. Solve all of them. "He was at one of the back tables in a bar I went to."

"And you didn't do anything? He didn't look out of place or beaten up to you?"

"He just had a lot of tattoos. Look at his stats Sam, she—"

"Eddy," Raises his hands to stop the fight. Takes a step forward because this might be the one and only lead they have besides what Jules knew about the guy two years ago. "Can you go back to that place? Tell the owner to call the cops if he shows up?"

"Yeah. Yeah of course."

Wordy leans forward, elbows digging into his legs. Hands clasped together, foot tapping against the floor again. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I need to talk to Sam about what he did last night. Holleran wants to suspend you further once—"

"Do whatever."

"Sam, just take a breath. Let's just take a few minutes to talk about what happened and then you can go see—"

"She doesn't want to see me. She doesn't want to see anyone. She just wants to be alone in her house where—"

"She can't just be alone." Wordy hovers by the doorway. Ed is already gone. Little bursts of the past break through his calm exterior like sun through overcast skies. Each word punctuated with the burden of knowing exactly what's happening without reading the file. "As much as she wants to be, we can't let her be alone."

"All we can do is deal with this one day at a time." Can't respond. Won't respond. Because his mind is just a montage of images at this point. A slideshow at some macabre retirement party for his sanity. The scotch on his table. The scotch his table ten years ago. Dean leaving. Lew exploding. Measured bruises. Roy's cursive. Scott's face. "Just go home and be with your family."

The door creaks shut behind Wordy. When only the two of them remain in the locker room Sam shakes his head. Takes a step forward. Uses his aggressive voice. "Sarge, her house. It's where—"

"I know." Interrupts because her house, her living room, which he's seen before, is somewhere in the montage. The walls are blue. She painted them herself. But the scotch is stronger. The color. The smell. Thought he was cured of it, but things run in cycles. "Go wait for me in the briefing room while I try to call Spike again."

* * *

><p>"Jules." The gorgeous, handcrafted front door rests against his shoulders. The finely sanded edge slices between his blades, presses directly on his spinal cord through the crinkling material of his SRU windbreaker. "Jules."<p>

Winds stirs up behind him, howls in his ears and shudders the door against his back. The sky is an interesting shade of swollen gray, starting cotton ball light and ending in melted metal swirls. The rain was touch and go all night long. Listened to it calm itself, and then suddenly breakout into distressing fits of downpours where the sky opened into laments. He wonders if that's how her night was. Can't even bring himself to think about it, about her, about how he just left because he was a little drunk and so angry. Just so fucking angry.

Knocks on the thick wooden door with his hand. With his knuckles. With his bruised, cut and flayed knuckles swimming in an ocean of irritated red skin already healing from thirty plus years of Italian home cooking. It doesn't stop the hurt though. Doesn't stop the nerves from playing telephone with each other and sending a flare up his arm. Rips his arm away from her door with a, "Fuck."

Switches the Tupperware to his right hand, right arm. Cradles it because it's a big, clunky thing straight from the seventies. He's almost positive his mother got it at an actual Tupperware party. It probably has all sorts of chemicals harmful to small animals and smaller humans. Maybe he shouldn't have brought this one. Left hand is already knocking. Then knocking louder. Then slamming into her door, flat palm down like he's trying to resuscitate someone. Who? Who the fuck does he even have left?

Realizes he's probably scaring her. Well, not scaring her because nothing scares her. Remembers how she looked when she admitted to getting hit. Remembers her perfectly. Remembers her from angles he's sure he didn't see her from. And she didn't even blink. But he doesn't want to unnerve her, doesn't want to remind her of what all guys, deep down, essentially are. Man's evolved sure, and his mother faints and fans herself with the bible every time he mentions this, but men have never fully evolved. There's still some troglodyte deep down in the ventricle walls. It's not in their souls; it's in their hearts because it actually exists. Every man biologically inherits one.

"Jules, it's Spike," yells sideways from the graying, dilapidated porch steps to what he assumes is her room. Has only ever been to her house once. Maybe twice. He doesn't like it. None of them liked each others' houses. It's usually why they went to bars and got shitfaced instead.

They're all stuck in different life stages. Jammed in a stage of metamorphosis. He's in his parents' house, where his mother cooks his meals and does his laundry, his father will drive him places to save on gas, and his sister still won't let him in her room even though she lives in a different country. He's stuck in grade school. Lew lived in a one bedroom apartment in a building the York kids used. He went to their parties, drank their beer, hit on their girls. He played video games and listened to his music way too loud, way too late at night. He liked slasher flicks and basketball. Lew was stuck as a college freshman.

Jules' house looks like a spinster's house. A woman with too many cats and when you knock on her door she's waiting on the other side with a shotgun. The porch has broken stairs to quell off any visitors and the driveway has a nasty bump at the end of it to ward off anyone with a low enough muffler. She went from university to middle-aged. Like she's jumpstarting her own death, and it creeps him out.

"Jules, come on let me in." Cell goes off in his pocket and he assumes it's her calling him. It's not. It's Sarge. It doesn't even register an eye roll with him. He knows they have a team meeting today to discuss what happened to her without her being present. Got the message. Doesn't give a fuck.

He abandoned her once already with selfish, freeloading thoughts gestating in a scorned heart resembling his torn up knuckles because she knew how he was feeling and she didn't want to see him. Felt the caveman in him want to smash more than a cheap industrial bathroom mirror and had to get out of there. Didn't even think about what that would mean to her. How it would feel to her. If she would even request his presence.

So when he went to the hospital this morning, Tupperware in hand, he mentally prepared himself for this image of his friend. His last remaining true friend, not a teammate, or someone he works with, a friend who would probably look like she was decomposing. He had to try to figure out ways not to treat her differently. Not to let her know this was affecting him too, because how it affected him mattered fuck all. She was the important one; she was the one they needed to help without directly helping her because she'd never allow it.

When he found out she wasn't there, he wasn't even surprised. Didn't even react, which he supposes is a good form of preparation leading up to seeing her. Figured Sam broke in sometime overnight to carry her away marauder style, but checked her house anyway.

"Okay Jules, now I'm going to the backdoor."

Slips down the angled, worn steps and onto the rocky walkway. Trudges over her front lawn which is more mud than grass, and unhinges the lock from behind the evergreen fence. Her backyard is more landscaped, trees placed with care, lawn edged, but the ground is still soft and his dress shoes sink heel deep into mud.

Her backdoor is covered by a lip of roof and as he steps up the new porch stairs, golden wood sturdy under his weight, the sky booms and the first drops of rain dot the cement patio. Opening the screen door he lets it rest against his side. Listens to the aluminum curve. Then he knocks on the door. "Jules, come on."

"Hey." A guy his age maybe a year or two younger stands in the adjacent backyard. The fences are pretty tall offering a lot of privacy. The only reason they can see each other is because he's up on the porch. "She's not home, okay Pal?"

"Her car is in her driveway," he states simply before pounding on the door again. Closed fist, open palm, side of his hand. He's becoming a regular found musician.

"Maybe she went for a walk then. Just get out of here."

"She didn't go for a walk."

"Look asshole, my kids are trying to sleep and if you don't stop I'm going to call the cops and—"

Then he's done something he's never done before. Not before when he was a regular cop, not during the SRU. Not until this point. He whips out his badge and takes a few steps off her back porch and into the drizzle, shoving the brass plate into the air. It reflects in the weak light. "I'm a cop okay? So if you don't want to be arrested for obstructing justice I suggest you shut up and go back inside your house to your kids."

"Yeah." The guys nods, hand already on the door to his house. "Sure. Okay."

He's covered in a fine layer of rain water, beads singled out and rolling over the lid of the Trudeau era Tupperware. He stomps back up the stairs, securing his badge back inside his jacket and washes a hand over his face to clear it of the droplets clinging to his eyelashes. Then opens the screen door and continues banging.

After a few minutes, probably from the adrenaline of verbally defeating her dumbass neighbor or maybe it's just another caveman moment, he announces, "Jules, I know you're home. You know I can take apart this door. And I—" But he doesn't finish, because his eyes still layered with crisscrossed veins thatched together from an inherent case of insomnia and the weakest buzz to ever bring him a hangover, finally notice the details.

The large footprints complete with a horse's stride leading up to her backdoor. How the handle to the door is limp and loose. How the paint is chipped away from the wall. And it happened. It happened right here. He's standing in the exact spot yesterday some guy stood and—

The door wheezes, clicks, clacks and shakes away from the frame. The inside of her house is dark. Dark because outside is dark. Dark because she hasn't turned any lights on. Her hand, the fingers curl around the edge of the door as she braces herself behind it. He can only see a fraction of her face. What looks like a star cluster of bruises over her eye, the pupil dyed with blood from abuse.

"What do you want Spike?" It's not Jules. Not the Jules he knows. He's never heard her speak like this. Even with Lew, during Lew, after Lew. The voice is so pained, because she is in pain, because none of them did anything to stop it.

"I just came to see you." Didn't say came to see how you were doing. If you were okay. She's not doing good. She's not okay. It's obvious. So obvious to all of them, yet they all have this mama bird technique of letting each other learn to fly on their own. All of them except Sam, who has his talons sunk way too far into her wings for her to possibly fly.

"I'm going to close the door now."

She starts to push it shut and he wants to physically stop her, but he doesn't want to reenact it. Wants her to feel safe in her own home, which apparently she does. At least a little. "Jules, please. I know I wasn't there for you yesterday, and I'm sorry." Stares down and finds indents in the metal runner. He closes his eyes, wonders if he really does want to go in there. If he can handle it. Then he answers himself with what the hell kind of bullshit question is that? "I was—" Drunk? Angry? Jealous she would rather rely on Sam, the only person to get her shot, than him? "I wasn't myself."

"But I'm me now." Weakly chuckles and when he stares into the darkness embedded in the walls of her house, all that stares back is a red eye buried among a galaxy. "I'm here now, and I'll be here as long as you need me."

Then there's just the rain. Spilling over the side of her gabled roof. Ribboning into her garden. Streaming out of her gutters. Hitting the metal with a ping. Her fingers bend, and he wonders if it's in rumination, or pain. Pale face almost disappears until just the corner of her eye and cheekbone are visible. It takes him a second to realize she's leaning her forehead against the door. "I don't look so great right now, Spike."

"What?" It's a soft and almost uneasy question. The bifurcation, the implication of him only caring what she looks like and not wanting to see her unattractive partnered with her innate need to always appear unburdened, unstressed, healthy and done up. He saves his breathless question by evolving it into a classic Spike joke. But she knows. Always knows. "You think I hang around with the rest of the team because they're so attractive?"

Fingers tap against the fern paint on the door. The chipped serrated edges breaking away like the auburn autumn leaves in her backyard. Weighted not by rain, but by the transference of pain, of thought. Underneath an austere white appears in globs of prehistoric primer thrown at the door and left to run in streaks until dry.

Doesn't speak. Doesn't say a single word and it's Lew's funeral all over again. The six of them crammed into the front pew. Ed with Sophie, Wordy with Shelly. Sam sitting on the aisle end, bathed in pure arrogance with his arms crossed. When the service was over he left. Just up and left, they didn't see him again until at the hospital.

Jules sat on the opposite end. Maybe it was planned to keep her away from Sam. Maybe it was politeness to let the lady go in first. Maybe it was so Sarge could be between them and try to juggle what he thought would be rampant emotions. Both of them were overly quiet. Sure afterwards he joked. Joked in blind rage because he felt like the Team abandoned Lew. Stood by while he blew. While Lew blew. His back was to. His back was to his best friend while he said his last words and—

Quiet. She was just quiet. Just didn't say a single word. Didn't even know if she was breathing. She hardly moved. Hardly breathed. Just a husk of her person, the strong woman who saved his ass countless times. Dragged him half blind through gun infested drug dens and saved his ass. Her hands folded simply in her lap and her head bowed in a constant prayer. Wonders if she's religious. Definitely not as religious as his family, or his mom. The Pope isn't as religious as his mom.

Kind of worked herself into a corner at the reception. Then when someone tried to engage her, she disengaged. Excused herself and left the room. Behind him, someone he didn't know was complaining about the lack of shrimp. Sarge didn't notice her leave. Ed and Wordy, who were catching up with Rolie, didn't notice her leave.

He found her in the hatch of her jeep. Legs swung wildly in the summery wind. Hair blew haphazard around her face. Hands still folded mid-prayer. Stood to the side with his hands in his suit pockets. Kicked at pebbles. Didn't want to intrude, but something made him. "You okay?"

"It's stuffy in there." Posture didn't change, but she caught a ribboning strand of hair and trapped it behind her ear. Leg stopped, stretched straight. One of those ridiculous high heels stapled to the bottom of her foot.

The wind composed to a serene caress as he approached her jeep. Hand on the back of the tailgate. "The conversation isn't that bad. I mean it's a little over my head but—"

She laughed at him and he took it as an invitation to sit beside her. Behind her Jeep in the lot sat Ed's SUV, beside it was Wordy's Minivan. Camaraderie extended through vehicles. Her forehead rested against a pale forearm and she shook her head. "What are we supposed to do?"

"Hmm?" Glanced away from the cars and noticed her pained expression for the first time. The way her eyes wrenched closed against her arm. How her lips were crooked and wired. The light smudge of her makeup.

"What are we supposed to do now Spike?" And she looked at him with blameless eyes. Glassy, innocent eyes crushed by mere existence. Like the idea of waking up tomorrow was enough pain to rival a certain bullet. He knows. Thinks he knows. Because he feels the same way.

"Well, eventually we'll have to go back inside. And then we'll go home. You to your house and me to my mom who won't leave me alone and my dad who won't acknowledge me. And tomorrow we'll do a slightly different order of things, but we'll do it again. And again. Until we die." Contemplated for the millionth time that second if he didn't make a mistake by not staying downwind. Two birds, one landmine. It would have been easier, simpler, less painful that way.

But her bare eyes sank. Buried treasure underneath thousands of hours of injury. Years of turmoil growing up through God knows what, while he just had to deal with a wooden spoon across the knuckles when he reached for cannoli that were too hot. "Or," he added it quickly in a stumbling fashion so she might think he was being comedic. "Or we go out tonight and tomorrow and everyday for the next two weeks to drink until we can't feel the pain."

Dropped her head back to her lap, but a hint of a smile graced her emotionally ravaged lips. "That doesn't sound too healthy."

"It's an old family remedy for heartache."

"There's something like that in my family too." Legs swung as the wind whirled the beginnings of fall leaves around the cracked tar parking lot.

"Yeah?"

"It's called alcoholism." And he didn't know what to say because all he could think of was the bell tolling in his head from her allergic declaration. It was like a supporting argument. Like a positive biopsy. In a tiny voice distorted from a quivering lip she added, "But God, I could use a drink."

Didn't say a thing. Just placed a hand on her back. Was careful. Didn't really touch her much before and now had the underlying feeling if he touched her the wrong way she would break. Crack. Crumble. The back, it supports the body. Lew supported the Team. Straddled the gap between older group and younger. Got along with everyone. At his funeral they could already feel the tectonic shift.

Disappears from the mouth of the door and he steps inside her house. The temperature is the same, but the mugginess from the rain is gone. The cool wind fall rains bring dissipates upon his crossing the threshold. The whole time she remains behind the door. Pushes it shut with the weight of her entire body. There's a click and a clack as the lock engages.

He can only establish a few details from the dim light leaking through the kitchen curtains. Her hair is damp, half done up, but escaping from the bun. The back of her neck is airbrushed dark. She's wearing a faded lilac colored sweatshirt way too big to be her own; it falls almost to her knees which are covered by sweatpants.

But then she turns. Then she turns and he sees everything. Everything past, present and future. Everything down to the color of chipped polish she's wearing on her trimmed-too-close toenails. Everything in the salty ocean swells crashing on the side of her face where her eye, nose and the corner of her lips meet to become one. The drape of her fat lip and the etch-a-sketch dashes holding it together. The rings of Saturn around her neck. The dappling of bruises on her chest like the coloring of a finch's wings. The sling holding her arm precariously because she fumbled restringing it, all crooked and burrowing. Her iris is a cranberry. Plucked, removed and processed.

Sarge reacted openly, treated her differently. Dropped him off without answering his questions on how she was and basically kicked him out of the vehicle. Sam must have reacted differently, sad, furious, lamenting. Probably tried to hide it for her, but his selfishness exceeds his willpower. He feels all those things. Feels the death of everything he knew inside of him. Just like after Lew died. But he knows Jules isn't dead, she does too, but everyone else will need convincing. Feels all the egotistic emotions because it's a fifth his fault, probably more because he knows how she was, knows her a little better, knew something was up by a single hand on his shoulder when she left the bar. Feels the burden of everything amassing within him. Of functions primordially reacting, heart beating faster, fingers striking matches, eyes unblinking, body temperature rising.

"Your sling is twisted." Is how he reacts. Manages to quell the caveman because his dry eyes stare into the cranberry which can't seem to meet him and he sees the innocent pair from the back of a Jeep in a funeral parking lot. With swinging legs and too high of heeled shoes. Where hair whipped chaotically and she was afraid of drinking too much because it ran in the family.

She observes a moment. Maybe a little startled from his lack of physical reaction. From his lack of hand to mouth gasp, while stepping back and creating a cross with his fingers. What the hell did the others do to make her think like this? "Yeah." Opened eye tips down to the braiding and entwined blue fabric strangling her right arm. "It's hard to put on with one arm."

Thinks about her trying to throw her good arm around her back. Trying to monkey her way into stringing up her bad arm with her not so efficient arm. Sets the Tupperware on the table. A few raindrops drip to her white kitchen floor, which is incandescent in the darkness. Luminous in its pristine quality. Wants to help her, but doesn't want to impose. Touching her after she was shot is one thing, touching her after she was raped in the place it happened seems like—"Should I fix it?"

Left shoulder lurches forward, a stiff and jerky occurrence. Remains heightened for a few seconds before tiredly collapsing and he doesn't know if it's her subtracted version of a shrug or just a muscle spasm. A twitch of her body trying to recalibrate itself back to its origin, before everything became misplaced and lapsed. "Will it really make a difference?"

It won't. Really it won't. Her appearance in the near film noir lighting of her modern country kitchen won't be aided by a simple restringing of a sling the same way the broken neck of a Stradivarius won't be aided by a simple restringing. Her discomfort level won't diminish. Untwisting twine won't reduce swelling, or cause bones to heal faster, or salve the mental burns. But it's the only thing he can offer her. Can't extract a swift justice because they both know he's not the type. Can't openly comfort her because they both know he's not the type. But he can restring a sling. Like hockey skates or roller blades, which he never owned. But he did burn his arm on sulfuric acid when he was little and had to wear a sling.

"Might do something." When he speaks his molars don't move from being glued together. It's because he's a little afraid. Not at her appearance, but at her denial. A little ashamed because if Lew was here, Lew would know exactly what to do. Feels like there's an ice cube caught in his caveman ventricle. Like he can't feel anything from the inside out because he's been forced to feel everything at once. But he looks at her and he knows it's not true.

Knows for everything he's had to deal with, pepper spray included, she's had it ten times worse. It wasn't always clear to him, because he wasn't always enlightened. It took a certain teammate to explain the ways of the world contained within Team One.

It was after his first week on the job. After all the preliminary tests. After all the hours on the gun range, the days spent in endless drills, the weeks in the briefing room going over tactics. After his first real week on the job, after Wordy pepper sprayed the inside of his riot gear helmet during a simulation and made his eyeballs the size and shade of ruby reds, when Lew approached him in the locker room.

"Yo Man."

His body towered against the lockers in a relaxed position. He was intimidated. Intimidated by them all. They were all taller than him, well except Sarge whose knowledge and authority were imitation enough. He was imitated by Jules, because even though she helped him, he saw the way the other guys treated her and he was confused. Unsure of whether to treat her like one of the guys. Didn't really feel right. Instead he stuck to the back to the truck like a wad of spitty gum and just did intel. Intelligence gathering, system hacking, nothing to do with chemicals since it had only been a week.

"You busy?"

Expected Lew wanted him to do restock, or wanted to show him how to do restock so he could bolt. Sure he's a nervous guy who talks way too much in awkward situations and cracks jokes at inappropriate times, but he's always listening to what other people say. About him, about each other. It's how he gathered most of his preliminary intel on the team. Learned Ed and Wordy were old friends. Learned Lew was quite a ladies' man. Learned Rolie had bad anger management problems. It's amazing how much people talk when they think he's not listening.

"I'll do restock." He answered, not tipping his head up from tying his running shoes. Restock is one of the first skills taught. Not even integral to the job, but no one likes doing it, so it becomes the responsibility of the rookie among other things. "I don't mind."

"No man." Lew laughed, showed off flawless gleaming teeth as he shook his head. "Ed and Rolie got restock. They've got it covered unless you want to listen to an hour of angry bitching. Maybe an hour and a half if they get off on a good subject."

"Oh, then what?"

"Thought you'd want to go out to celebrate your first week on the finest team in the finest city." Grinned wide and crossed his long arms over his chest. Hadn't heard much intel about Lew, mostly because the older guys only talked to each other about each other or their families. Didn't know which division he transferred in from, what his pastimes were, if this offer could be taken seriously, or if he would be pepper sprayed when he agreed.

Also didn't want the guys to know about his living situation. He'd come to terms with the fact that there's some sort of invisible umbilical cord choking him. Living with his parents at his age isn't just relationship suicide, its social suicide. Modern day society doesn't understand the constraints of having a traditional Italian Family. "I'm kinda busy."

A long finger pointed at him, the shadow of it dragged over the few feet between them, over the then cracked tile of the men's locker room. Eerie, like the elongated finger of death beckoned him. "But you just said you'd do restock."

"I was being polite." He mumbled back, grabbed his gym bag from the floor next to him and stood. He inhaled deeply, sort of to puff out his chest, maybe appear a little intimidating. Lew had almost a foot on him, so he didn't know why he thought it would work.

Instead of the malice or haranguing he assumed would greet him, in the trademark calm voice Lew offered, "Look Man—Spike. It's hard to adjust here, so a week is an achievement." Speech petered off and his lips ticked wistfully. His head snapped down, and his body adjusted straighter, taller, sky scraper. "Plus, what do I know about you? Nothing Man. What do you know about us? Nothing. It'll be a learning process."

Considered it, didn't want to call his Ma and explain he was going out drinking with cops. Two things she disapproves of even though he's well over the legal drinking age. "Who's coming?"

Lew's neck contorted, angled around his body without being conspicuous as he spied on Ed and Rolie stuck in lock-up doing restock. Their grumbled complaints slowly grew louder. "None of the older crowd. Wordy's already at home because of the new baby and The Boss—" He paused, narrowed his eyes and turned his back, broad shoulders blocked out the low hanging saucer lights. "Well I'll explain that later."

So he agreed. Agreed because beside the basics of negotiations and everything he learned prior to his joining the Team, he didn't know anything. Didn't know anything about them or their hot button issues. He can't spend the rest of eternity in the back of a truck digging up intel on the rest of the world and not know anything about the people he spends eight to twelve hours a day with.

Jules stood at the elevator, her coat draped over her hooped arms. It was early May, the weather just started to keep its warmth when the sun went down.

"Yo Jules."

She glanced over her shoulder, ponytail created a perfect brushstroke across her back. "Lew." Pursed lips budded into the start of a playful grin. When she noticed him, the smile softened, "Spike, congratulations on your first week."

"Thanks," he mumbled back. Struggled to get his coat on. Arm ended up entangled with the strap of his gym bag and inside of his coat.

Lew leaned sideways, his arm on the brass frame of the elevator beside her. He thought it was really intimidating, well must have been for her. But after he and Lew became best friends it became his tell. Lew only leaned around people he cared about, people he didn't want to intimidate with his homegrown height. "Me and Spike are going out for drinks. You in?"

"Oh." She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, pierced it with her front teeth and her eyebrows dropped in a sorry expression. "You know I would, But I have plans."

"Oh yeah?" Lew's eyebrow arched, as his thumb pressed the down arrow for her again. "Charity work?"

"Maybe, but I don't think there's much potential."

"And you wouldn't even blow it off for your boys?"

"Spent all day with my boys, Lew."

The ding from the elevator interrupted his response. He picked up her purse from the floor and handed it to her. "Good luck then."

"Yeah, he's the one who needs the luck." Before the doors closed she stopped them, pushed them back with a single hand. "Don't take him to The Goose. He's going to go to The Goose so much with the other guys. Take him somewhere—"

"Where there's no choir practice."

Immediately her expression flipped. Eyebrows slanted forward, shrouded her eyes. Lips hooked with anger. Recognized the same expression from his mom, and his sister, and numerous other female relatives. Expected Jules to stomp off the elevator, chuck her purse at the wall and go off on a rant. Only she didn't. Just pressed the ground floor with reserve. "Take him somewhere where you might get good charity."

"I don't need charity." Lew waved as the doors closed.

That night became the first of hundreds spent with Lew. Literal hundreds. Sometimes they went to clubs, respectable yet still entertaining clubs where the drinks were amazingly fair priced. They'd sit at a side booth and drink until last call, knitted bonds between them by sharing memories, good, bad, amazing, embarrassing. Sometimes he'd actually scrounge up some charity. Those nights were rare and usually not as memorable. Other nights they'd drive around in Lew's SUV and listen to bad 90s rap which he mocked.

Lew always set his jaw, a little smarted, and shook his head. "Yeah, poke fun all you want, you Sinatra-loving Freak."

It wasn't the rap which was funny, or the fact that Lew, the world's most personable, open, accepting, happy guy listened to it. It was the fact that usually the rap was antiestablishment and therefore antipolice. He'd laugh, drink his coffee in the wintertime, eat his ice cream cone in the summer. Lew would shrug, "Cut off all your roots Man, and you die."

Now from time to time he listens to the songs. The songs he remembers clear enough. The ones Lew would rap back to him when he complained enough about the lyrics. Has them on his iPod, listens to them while he works out, which is one of the only things he's done since Lew died. Hasn't done it since—

Asked Lew about her once. After he'd been on the Team for almost three years. Finally got the courage to ask Lew about her. Asked if there was anything ever between them. Kept the tiniest flack of jealousy from his voice. Lew was his friend, his best friend, his brother. Jules was his friend, a close friend.

They were at a bar. Not a club as the club scene had waned for them. Somehow they'd both agreed at the same time that finding random charity was wanton when compared to settling down. Lew leaned against the counter; chin touched the lip of his newly birthed fourth beer. They were going to need a cab tonight. Maybe call Jules.

Lew chuckled at the idea, sucked on the beer and chuckled.

"What?" He answered, hands clammy around the equally perspiring beer. The neck of it wet and cold in his slick, hot hand.

Lew threw back his head, took a long swig of the beer which traveled almost transparently through the bob in his throat. Soon the adoption of his street slang would occur. Whenever Lew got shitfaced, his old vernacular trickled back in. He rested more against the counter, elbow bent, eyes half lidded with inebriation, and he burped once. "I respect that woman too goddamn much to ever make a move on her."

He nodded and leaned against the counter too. "Wait. What?"

"Think about it man, she has to deal with the exact same shit we do." Gulped down another mouthful of beer while shaking his head. "The exact same shit, plus the pressure that ninety-nine percent of the police force doesn't think she should be on the Team."

"Yeah but—" Paused, had to organize his thoughts. What was his point? There was a rainbow right? There had to be a rainbow. Wait, when the fuck did he become the one defending the existence of the rainbow, to Lew of all people. There had to—"We don't though. We treat her well."

"Yeah." Lew's voice softened, he grinned, lips flexed against the bottle. "We do, but we're only two men."

"What? No, I meant the Team."

"What? No fuck that noise, Man."

"Use." Took another drink. Didn't know why. Maybe the subject matter, maybe the age old threat of masculine competition. "Use real words."

"The Team." Paused. Rubbed the corners of his mouth where flecks of beer froth gathered. "They're better now I guess. Wasn't—weren't so good. Rolie. Rolie fucking hates her."

"Rolie?" Scrolled through the faces of everyone on the Team. The older guys, they all tend to blur together, are pretty interchangeable when he's buzzed on his way to shitfaced.

"Spike, don't tell me you never noticed."

Hasn't really. Her and Rolie had never been partnered up from what he remembered which is weird considering he's been there almost three years. They'd never shared a rig, or an operation or goal. In fact they were usually on opposite ends of the spectrum. Her and Ed were snipers, Lew and Wordy were close combat, and Rolie the entry expert. He's still in the truck.

"Why—"

"I dunno. Some shit happened when I was learning repelling though."

Lew said it was raining that day. Not just raining but pouring. Pissing down rain. Thick like walking through Jamaican waterfalls. Like diving into the salty ocean and letting it rock you full circle. Pushing down hard, hands holding shoulders under the water. Sarge hesitated, arms crossed in pensive inner debate as he watched the dark gray sky. There was no lightning, but learning how to repel in a rainstorm isn't exactly ideal.

Ed contradicted the concern and pushed Lew up out of his chair. "If this happens on a hot call are we all going to stay inside due to inclement weather?"

So the Team marched to the roof. Where winds aided by the extreme height became more violent. Stirred up the stagnant puddles of water and whipped raindrops at random. Everyone was quiet. Lew stressed how only Ed talked, dictated, while the rest of them remained silent in a weak semicircle around the equipment. The harnesses and the ropes. The locks and pulleys.

The rain fell heavier, harsher. Plopped in the puddles, until the rooftop was a solid lake. New drops jumped against the surface like popcorn. Ed tipped the brim of his hat, twin streams of water flowed over the edges in equal force. "Who wants to demonstrate?"

"Guess I will." Rolie stepped forward. One foot full of bravado, the other full of arrogance. "I am the entry expert with the repelling record."

"Actually Jules has it." Sarge corrected him, clipboard in hand. The paper was a checklist to ensure Lew did the proper actions before thrusting himself off the side of the building, but the rain pulverized the paper, slobbered all over it.

Rolie wrenched his neck to glare at her for a moment. The movement so quick water flew off of him like a shaking dog. "No I do."

"No, Jules does. It makes sense, she's lighter—"

"That's bullshit." Rolie's hands and arms yanked up in angry jerks as he strapped himself into the repel line. "We'll settle this now."

"You want to race?" Her voice was incredulous and buried underneath a sopping hat. Lew stood beside her and from the angle, the top of her hat was completely drenched black from rainwater. "In the rain?"

Instead of answering, their teammate chucked the other set of repel gear at her. She caught the thick, bound rope as it thunked against her chest. Lew remembered the force of the throw sent her body back a step and he inadvertently found his fists bunched.

They raced and Jules won. Partly because she's lighter, smarter, and understands the physics of repelling. And partly because Rolie didn't secure himself properly, so he ended up suspended at the eighth floor in the middle of the rainstorm. Jules volunteered to help him, but he refused to have her near him. Ed, instead of focusing on what was clearly an interpersonal problem and the borderline misogynist his friend was, said it was a good learning experience for Lew.

Lew said he almost shit himself at that moment. Rolie literally hung by a string off the side of their building, thrashed back and forth in a throe of rage and a high windshield. He said he must have appeared terrified because Jules placed a gentle hand on his arm and told him it was really simple. Showed him on her gear what was wrong with Rolie's and the simple way in which to reverse the kink in the rope. He repelled precariously down the side of the building, slammed against it with inexperience in the strong winds. He saved Rolie who bitched at him the whole time. Afterwards the whole Team congratulated him as Rolie silently fumed, and clomped off into the building.

Later Lew caught Jules before she left and told her with mild embarrassment he had no idea what he did. Said she smiled gently at him and agreed to go over techniques with him at the briefing table until he had a semblance of understanding.

"Happened an hour after that." He and Lew reclined against the brick wall outside of the bar. The rock music vaguely audible from a few steps above the basement pub. They both wavered on their feet, broke into random fits of giggles, tears and unfueled rage.

"Rolie, the asshole, comes stompin back into the briefin room. Just runnin his mouth off to her." Lew's head started to shake, but then the movement evolved more into a circular roll due to loss of equilibrium. "Shootin shit about how she planned it. How she made him look like an idiot. Called her a lot of bad things."

"Whadid she do?" He held his breath, the anticipation. Like she wasn't okay then. Wanted to phone her to ensure she was okay then.

"Just ignored it." Lew shrugged, arched uncomfortably against the wall. "But he wouldn't. I gotta piss. "

"I gotta piss too." Not really. Sort of. Maybe anticipation. He could. "Whadid he do?"

"Shoulda pissed before we called." Nostrils flared at the inconvenience. But they glanced at each other for a split second, broke out into juvenile laughter and spun so they faced the wall. Zippers dropped in synchronization. "Charged her."

"Huh?"

"Rolie. Charged her."

His mind went back to the briefing room scene. New Lew with a mighty afro, and Jules getting attacked by Rolie. It distracted him from pissing. Lew was winning. "What happened?"

"She jumped outta her chair. He shoved it over. Piss man or you gonna be pissing in the car."

"Okay. Okay." Swift stream of urine blasted the brick next to Lew's still powering away. Mental note to use the urinals next time. Always did this, always forgot and ended up pissing on graffitied and masticated brick. "What then?"

"Stood in front of her. I was mad, Man. I told him shit. Shit I haven't said since I was a teenager." Knew Lew's history extensively by that point, got the allusion to his gang days. "I said, 'I was from Guns 'n Gangs. Before that I was in a gang with guns' 'n if he ever raised his voice to her, I'd lay the smack down. She saved his fucking life."

"You did."

"I did 'cause of her."

"He leave?" Stream ran to a trickle; spread his legs a little wider not to get any on his running shoes. Lost a good pair last time.

"Yeah. Reported it to Sarge. Sarge worked the promotion to get him out." Lew shook, belt buckle clanked.

"Never knew." Any of it. The 'false' promotion. The shit Jules has to deal with. The new rookie, Sam couldn't be any better. They all saw the way he looked at her. Like a lion at a gazelle. In his opinion someone just needed to hit the guy. Hard. Super hard. Maybe each team member could just get one good punch. It's enough.

"What'd I say man? Much respect."

Stream finished and he shook spat urine onto decaying brick. "Yeah I—"

"Jesus Christ." Her voice rang out from the mouth of the alley ten feet away where her Jeep idled. "Are you guys seriously pissing on the wall again?"

He and Lew zipped quickly, giggled all the while. Motored out saliva in bursts of laughter. Shoulders hid their amused lips.

"I swear to God, I'm not sweet talking the bar owner for you again."

"We only did it so we wouldn't piss in your Jeep."

"Yeah," Lew added with a stiff nod. "We pissed because we care about you."

She sighed angrily, hands on her hips. The streetlight glowed from behind her, left only her contour. "Conceal your weapons, Boys."

"We're good." Both answered, raised their hands, and turned around from the urine soaked wall.

"Do not touch me or get into my Jeep until you use the hand sanitizer." Last time Jules picked them up and found them violating the public urination law, she would not let them into her car until she returned with hand sanitizer. The sanitizer stayed in her glove compartment, which only encouraged them.

"Okay Mom. Jesus."

"How much did you guys drink? Why? Who the fuck died? Do you even realize that I have a life? That I could have been doing something on Friday night?"And he noticed her attire for the first time. A low cut black top, a skirt which fell just above her knees, and knee high boots. Wondered if they had interrupted something because she'd never bitched at them before.

Lew blew a raspberry, large tongue rolled and shot spit sloppily clear across the alley. Glob landed at the back tire of her Jeep. "Please you ain't been giving charity since that Scott guy."

"Yeah, Scott couldn't make a donation even if he was in the Millionaires' Club." She opened the driver's door; hand rested on the seat as she leaned over, pale thighs peeked out from under her skirt. "Can you pass me the sanitizer?"

A muffled voice asked something about pissing, caused her to press her knee harder into the faux leather front seat of the running car. "Would you just give me the goddamn sanitizer?"

She ripped her hand away from the person in the front seat, and adjusted the skirt back over her legs as she approached them. "Hands."

When they held out their hands, she squirted a healthy amount of the sour smelling liquid into their palms. He and Lew nodded once, he pursed his lips to keep the premature laughter from escaping. "Who you with?"

"What?"

Lew gestured to the Jeep; his hands glistened in the streetlight from being coated in sanitizer. "Who you giving charity to J?"

"Okay, that's Sam. We had to work late on reports at the SRU. I was there when I got your giggly call for a ride and since that idiot doesn't have a car either I somehow became the fucked up soccer mom in this situation."

Reached forward hand cupped a hand, still a little sticky, around her boney shoulder. "But you're our fucked up soccer mom."

She tore his hand away and looked like she might vomit. "What did I say about touching me?"

"I used the sanitizer and urine is sterile," he yelled as she walked to the driver's seat, tucked her skirt under her thighs as she sat down, and shut the door.

When he and Lew piled in the back, she retorted, "God, I hope you're sterile."

For the whole ride all three of them ignored Sam. Lew repeatedly asked her to find a station which played rap music and when she finally did, he complained and emphasized 'good' rap music. She said it was impossible because it didn't exist. She dropped Lew and him off first despite the fact they were closer to Sam's apartment.

He doesn't know why he remembers that night so clearly regardless of the fact he was so shitfaced he fell asleep on the floor of his bedroom instead of his bed. It might be because it was one of the last times, he, Jules and Lew were together before Lew died. Together outside of work because she kept making excuses to not get immaturely shitfaced with them. Maybe because he learned so much about Jules that night despite knowing her for almost three years. Jules will talk to him about his problems, talk to complete strangers who need help, but refuses to talk about herself. Or maybe it's because that was the night he and Lew realized, but couldn't admit, she was fucking Sam.

There's a pause. A moment where everything happening between them translates into a log, and then a short novel. Phrases into the comm. link scrolled up as notes because her cranberry fixates on him. Doesn't leave his face, his eyes, his sewn jaw. He doesn't dare look away, doesn't dare acknowledge the authority which existed in her house twelve hours ago. Respects her too damn much.

Finally she blinks. Her distended lip bumbles like the wings of a hardworking bee. "Sure."

"Okay." Unzips his SRU jacket to hang off the back of one of the four wooden chairs surrounding the small, circular table. There's a small plant centered in a white and blue ornate pot which is beginning to wilt from lack of sunlight.

Eyes land on her fridge. The metallic sheen refracting all angles and algebra in the negative light. Familiar faces familiar. Faces of kin and countrymen. Of brethren bred by different blood decorate the door in a collage akin to the type of artsy billboards teen girls devote to their idols. It makes him feel guilty because he has a shoebox of her pictures sleeping beside where his shoes sleep when they're not on his feet. Causes the caveman to slap a cudgel into his cupped palm twice because it's something so unlike her. Something so youthful, and intimate and loving. So goddamn full of love for all of them.

There are so many pictures, and in the stillness, in the caliginosity he constructs a few of the scenes all hung with multicolored neon magnets, or broad flat ones with advertisements. There's Wordy and Ed with their hands around each other's shoulders. It's from last year's Christmas party. There's one of him and Lew. They're in the front of a rig, he remembers her surprising them. Didn't get his hand up to block the flash on time. One of Wordy and Lew playing basketball. One of her hugging Sarge at the awards banquet they attended last spring before she was shot. One of Ed and Sarge lost in bickering. One of Sarge patting him on the back casually at the family picnic. Lew's obituary from the paper cut perfectly straight without a single deterioration in two weeks.

The last picture is sort of segregated. Shoved almost into the bottom corner of her fridge with inches separating it from the others. Like it's infected and had to be quarantined. It's a photo of her and Sam. He's asleep on her couch. She has one hand holding the camera, the other splayed across his jaw. Her eyes are closed as she presses a kiss into his cheek. Eyes won't leave the diseased picture. He bites the inside of his mouth and drops his coat to the back of a chair. Only his hand gets stuck in the rungs and the chair chokes across one square tile. The felt pad on the bottom of the back leg laughs half off.

Trying so hard not to be intimidating because he's not. He's Spike, the punch line to life's joke. Trying so hard to not treat her differently that he inadvertently is and he doesn't want her to pick up on it because he doesn't want things to be different even though he inherently thinks they will be though he prays they're not. Reaches to flick on the row of lights centered in the ceiling.

"No." Her foot actually steps forward. She's actually a whole footstep closer to him with her left elbow hinged to her side, but her fingers stretch out, flip like the tree branches in her backyard under the onslaught of rain. "No light. It hurts my eye."

"Yeah." Nods in agreement like she has a gun. Like her plea is a deadly weapon. Cocked and loaded aiming at both of them. The pellets hitting him, the kickback smarting her. Steps away from the switch. Hinders the action of raising his empty hands. "Sure. Okay."

"Spike." And the way her voice orchestrates it, just like he could close his eyes and be back in her locker room. Eyes a wild fury of blinks while trying to clear the pepper spray from his corneas. The stark juxtaposition of a gentle harshness. All embracing when it comes to anyone but herself. "My arm is fine the way—"

"It might help." Is all he can say. It's not much of an argument. More of a repetition of his earlier musings. It might do shit. But the needle on his gramophoned speech center skips and he repeats. Records scratches and he wrenches his eyes because it sounds like Lew's awful music. But it is all he can do besides keep her eye contact.

Doesn't speak. Not a single word as he slips his arm underneath the denticulated surface of dried plaster. How wet strips of whatever were thrown on without care or skill and made to dry unnaturally. Captured a sea in a tumultuous storm. Frozen ocean whirls in mid-wave. Right fingers slowly unravel the coiled strap and the sling releases her arm into his waiting hand.

It's heavy. So heavy. A synthetic casing in rose petals and thorns. The perverted ideas of severed limbs. The length and weight. Lew's size fourteen work shoe still doubled knotted from the knee down. There's a lighter weight, a ripple, a pinch on his right elbow. Her left hand bunches his freshly washed dark plaid dress shirt. Hand ironed by a loving mother. Her fingers arching in weakness, creating ingrained wrinkles, playing dead.

He swallows down unwanted emotions. Unwanted fears. Loud as water smashing against mountain crags. As the rain pounding against her gutter. As the silent cranberry, a pupil drowning in a half glass of blood, staring only inches away from him. His fingers tremble against a strained strap like a snare drum beat.

"I—" Doesn't—won't let himself stutter. "Just have to fix it at the back." Almost twirls around her in a poetic ballet. Breaks away from her contact, from her clutch against his arm. It's the pain. Just the pain. Pain is a narcotic, creates fantasy worlds and false personas.

His one hand sort of cradles her arm to her body, with her good hand weakly aiding him. All for show. His other hand strings up the sling. Tight vinyl strap unwound in his palm. Crane construction downtown. Figures behind her would be easier. No castigating cranberry. No denouncing pieces of fruit. But it's no easier behind her.

The sweater she's wearing, a bleeded purple with a Toronto Raptor's logo on the front, is too big for her. Too loose and the stretched neckline falls at the back. The smiling, tire-tracked collar reveals bruises. Fractions of bruises. Stars scattered across the sky. Scars in clusters. Gravitating around two nebulas pinwheeling on her shoulder blades. A watercolor abomination of blue, black, yellow and purple. Abstract impressionism.

He can't look. Catches the bruises once and can't look back. The sun in an eclipse. Blinded him for life. An expository statement in an allergic trance. Deafened him for life. Church bells and the sliver of the sun escaping from behind the moon.

He encourages the sweater over her right shoulder. It covers what he assumes to be a hand-sized bruise. Then continues to straighten the strap. The vinyl chitters. It laughs like polished glass.

"What's in the container?" Feels her lungs flutter with the question. Her back twitches against his palm as he unfurls the last coil. Wonders about her lungs. Her ribs. Wonders about the bullet in the evidence lock-up somewhere.

"Ma was making some cannoli for the church group this morning. I thought you might want some." It's a stupid answer for a stupid idea. He cannot imagine what has happened to her, because he won't let himself. Eventually, somehow through happenstance, some asshole will feed him the report. He knows that's going to happen because things don't stay quiet. They don't stay confidential. The Team may be some sort of makeshift abusive familial unit, but in order for anyone to help anyone else, all privacy becomes void. He can't, and for now, won't know what happened to her. And his physical solution to this is pastries.

"Oh." Her voice adopts so many emotional contexts he doesn't know which to follow. So he doesn't read into it. Takes the 'oh' as confused, tried and breathless from pain as he snaps the strap straight and into place.

"Don't you remember that one year at the family picnic?"

Doesn't speak. Just shakes her head. Wisps of damp hair unravel from her bun like yarn from a wound ball. They lick across her back, from the water lillies into the crimp of the massive sweater. It might even be too big to be Sam's. Did Sam ever like basketball?

"Well the family picnic, the year before Sam came, Shelly was really pregnant and couldn't make her dessert so I got my Ma to make some cannoli." Doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Doesn't sway or breathe before him. All he can do is continue on. Continue his story. Continue ignoring the universe on her back. Continue becoming immersed in the absence of fabric between failing machine vomited stitches in her sweater. "There were only enough for everyone to have one, but you know the guys. You never got one so I gave you mine because I can get them whenever I want, right? But then Lew said he didn't get one either, so you broke yours in half. It turned out Lew was the one that—"

Her body trembles once. Then again. Then continuous. Like one of the autumn leaves still clinging for life against a violent bough. Watches her muscles flex. Cause a tide to vacillate the constellations of her back. Left shoulder blade summits and creates a cascading shadow. Two pinnacles half under a sweater, the collar's smile distorted like a mouth missing teeth.

"Jules?"

He steps away from her. Actually sidesteps her. Sweeps by her like she's a mine buried beneath decorative sand. Circles around her from the safe distance of a few inches. She sobs. An open mouth sobs that breaks the barrier of her palm. It sounds like a threnody. Pure agony tumbles out of her mouth, gutting her body with racks as she struggles to muffle her own distress. Eyes skewed shut underneath the tines of her fingers.

"What do I do Jules?" Doesn't know what to do. It's pathetic. He's asking her and it's so goddamn pathetic. But she's never cried in front of him before. Sure when Lew exploded, but he cried too. Cried worse. Barely noticed her tears buried in his screams. Doesn't know what to do. She's shaking and sobbing and her face, the part that's not bruised, is turning red and her cheeks are wet and her breath keeps hitching in these little gasps. And he doesn't know what to do because he doesn't want to treat her any differently. Lew would know exactly what to do. He's so goddamn furious at Lew for leaving him. Them. So fucking rage filled because Lew would be so calm and know exactly what to say to her. Instead she just has him. Awkward, chickenshit him. He's so frightened because he doesn't know what to do and he's going to let her down like he let Lew down. Turned his back once and gone.

She hasn't stopped. Didn't hear, or acknowledge his question. Her breathing sounds like the defenseless mewls of a kitten and her hand thatches over her face, half of which he can't recognize. It must hurt her so much to cry, her chest, her ribs, her back, her eyes. The movement quakes her body, jostles her right arm. That must hurt too, but she keeps crying and he doesn't know why. Or what to do. What would Lew do? What would he want her to do if the situation was reversed?

"Okay." It's an assurance for him. Not for her, because none of this is okay. None of it is alright. Not until she tells him, will he tell her it's okay or alright. "I'm going to try to comfort you now." His fingertips touch the clammy, cold skin on her wrist to gently direct her hand away. Feels the cords of her wrist jump at the contact. "Let me know if I'm making you feel—"

Expected her to hit him. Fully expected it. Part of him was welcoming it. Like being back in the workout room in the SRU. Spinning around on mats like kids in a schoolyard. Spent so much time worrying about her right hand he forgot about her left which she integrated into the routine. Right. Block. Right. Block. Right. Block. Right Blo—Left fist in his temple. Bounces around him on the balls of her feet with that superior smile, lower lip bisected by front teeth. Hits her back but doesn't. Did once and he threw up.

Doesn't hit him. Her good hand is load bearing. When he pries it away from her face her body crumbles. Acid fingertips on marble statues. The temporal climax from years of touching. Her left fist does swing up. He flinches from habit, but her arm hooks around his neck. The left side of her face, the clear side, except for the stardust over her eye, presses into his chest.

His arms are in the air because he doesn't know what to do with them. Was uncomfortable two weeks ago patting her back at Lew's funeral. Was uncomfortable almost two years ago retrieving a deadly shrimp from her silken thigh. Is uncomfortable with her sobbing against him. Not sure whether it's the direct contact or the direct need. It's only him and her. He's the only one who can do something about this.

Inhales so deeply she rises with his chest. Drops one arm to the middle of her back where he knows no bruises go. Elbows are angled uncomfortably. Unnatural. But his fingers spread open and start to rub her back. Careful not to touch tenderized areas. Not to touch ribs. Doesn't stray from her spine. Doesn't ask her what's wrong. It's obvious in the arm stuck in a sling poking him in the torso.

But it's not. After a few seconds. Maybe a minute or even two, she doesn't say a word and he doesn't think he can keep on holding her because the initial awkwardness is leaking away with each watch tick, rain drip and he's getting used to it. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't understand." The crown of her head touches his chest. Hand sleeping back in the crook of his elbow. The layers of wrinkles running like highways and tributaries on maps.

Watches her fingernails, cut down to the cuticle, shaved to the bone, flick at the material. "If you want to talk about—"

"No not that. I understand that." Her left eyebrow twitches because her right can't. Voice is steady in its assurance. To him. To herself. But then her iris glances up at him. A cranberry vodka half empty through sticky, sorrowful lashes. "I don't understand what happened."

"What d—"

"And things keep changing and I don't understand. I got shot and it hurt like hell and I thought things couldn't get worse and they just keep getting worse. I said I wanted to go dancing. They just keep getting worse. I went to bed one day and I woke up the next and Lew was dead. He said he would take me dancing if I wanted. He was just dead. I know what happened to him. I was there and I don't know what happened. I don't understand because things keep changing."

Her voice over its normal bravado, well into rambling, precarious territory. A full exposure of the emotion her face can't convey. Pitchy, loud, and angry in resentment and confusion for things she should understand but can't. "Jules—"

She pulls away from him. The left side of her lower lip twitching. The vodka cranberry diluting with salt water. Roaming kitchen shadows swallow most of her body along with the stench of memories leaking from the fridge. But he can still make out a single glistening eye.

"And one time I closed my eyes and when I woke up I woke up on my back on my living room floor. And I don't know what happened to my sweater. And I had no idea what happened but I knew exactly what happened. I know exactly what happened. And I don't understand Spike. I don't understand why I was on my living room floor and what happened to Lew because I know."

And he understands her perfectly. In a tragic, ironic, bow-at-the-end-of-the-play laughable way, he understands her. Understands why he came here today. What Lew would have done. What he did and has to do.

Outside thunder rumbles and the rain blows sideways tapping against the kitchen window and speckles the remaining light. Her good arm snakes around her heaving chest. The distinguishable corner of her lip falls in a frown at his failure to answer.

He offers her his empty palm. It's sweaty as hell, but after darting her cranberry to it, she unravels her arm and places her hand in his. He hugs her again. Really hugs her. Not hard because he still doesn't want to hurt her, but this time he realizes what was at stake. What he could've lost again because he forgets so easily. With his back turned he forgets.

"Things. Things happen Jules." His cheek squishes against the top of her head, depresses against the still shower wet hair. Her arm rings his neck again, though not so tight. His rest around her shoulders and her back. Feels like their dancing. Lew didn't take her dancing. "Sometimes good things. Sometimes bad. I don't know why. Things build up. People grow. And then everything always falls apart."

She nods lightly, an echo of a motion. Can feel her eye close against his collarbone, lashes tickle his skin. "He said he'd take me dancing. And then he found out about me and Sam, and still said he'd take me dancing."

"Hey." Nudges her back a bit. Fully accepting the cranberry because it's not. It's her eye. It's her pupil filled with blood because some guy hit her so hard veins behind it ruptured. It doesn't intimidate him. It doesn't scare him. It just jostles his caveman a bit. "He was supposed to take me dancing too."

She smiles, but it falters fast. A shooting star. The flash from a camera. The blooming of a flower which overextends and then quickly withers. Something lurks behind her eye, behind the functioning corner of her mouth.

"Is it my fault?"

"Is what your fault?" The question is so absurd he doesn't even comprehend it at first. Can't fathom her thinking it, let alone asking it. But Jules is human and she's having human reactions to a very inhuman violation. While his brain explodes with expletives, with 'how the fuck can you think that' and 'who the fuck told you that' and their many distant cousins, he holds her hand again. Aside from short fingernails, it's the same hand that punches at the side of his face every now and again. The same row of five knuckles. Just slightly contused. "Jules, nothing that happened last night is remotely your fault."

"It's my house Spike. I'm a co—"

"Nothing that happened last night is your fault. No matter which way you build it up, it will never be your fault."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Is the chapter of death. No one dies. Not yet. No one except me because Chapter 8 has to be the most shit chapter of anything ever meaning I'm not going to enjoy writing it. Hopefully you have more fun reading than I do writing. <em>


	8. Pillars of Salt

_A/N:Hey Guys, Just-World update. You might be excited but it's Ed and Greg so quell your excitement. However, chapter 9 is already written and chapter 10 is started (up to chapter 15 is planned). Some people aren't going to like the way people act in this chapter. I don't like the way some people act in real life. Realism.  
>For the Team composition in this chapter (you'll see) I screwed around with canon characters. I guess it doesn't totally make sense with other characters' canon backstories and where they were at certain times, but I care not. For this is a grand old AU fiction. Emphasis placed on fiction. Those characters should be glad they're being used and keep their mouths shut.<br>I'll also state there's some obvious continuity errors. I don't want to pre-spoil anyone, but I had to change around the timeline a little bit. So in Ch. 5 Wordy says Ed tried to kill Jules on her first day. That's now invalid as the timeline shifted (Like The Sound of Thunder, eh?) It's now 3 months. This is just me being shit with numbers/planning.  
>Thanks to everyone who reviewedfavorited/alerted and, of course, read the last chapter. Sorry it took so long for this one to come along. It's the lack of hair. My creative inspiration gleams of their waxy heads and I can't see my keyboard.  
><strong>As always if you have any questions feel free to PM me.<strong>_

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 8

Pillars of Salt

Pounds them in. Fingers snap to the meter while his thumb forces in quarters. Quarter after quarter. Queen heads with sterile faces dropping into the slot, the hungry mouth of the machine, as the digital clock lurches forward in time. Doesn't pay attention. Spends a little too much time enjoying the force, switches his thumb for his palm and slaps the metal post leaving it shuddering.

Has an hour and a half to waste at the dive bar. Not really a dive bar. The incognito dive bar abducted from the Wild West and dungeoned to downtown Toronto. Three stairs to a red oak door. A sheriff's badge style star for a window. A black cast iron door handle.

Hesitates because it's a little after ten. Doesn't really know if a bar would be open this early. Contemplates coming back later. Maybe a little before happy hour to talk to the bartender from last night. The one with lotus fingertips and too many perfect teeth guarded by plump lips. Didn't take her number for proper reasons. Sophie snoring lightly next to him. Clark in the adjacent room, beams of neon light flickering from underneath his door at three in the morning.

Sophie reacted with the same brand of shock she used when he told her about Lew. Coffee sloshed around in her mug while her fingers curled to hide her mouth. Always hid her mouth. Like she wanted to say something, but never quite could. Spoon clanged off the cavity of his ceramic mug. Just waited for her to say something. Anything. Even change the subject. Put sugar in and nothing. Put cream in and nothing. Put the cream back in the fridge and she asked what they could do. There wasn't anything to do; they'd do something about it later.

Natural light illuminates the interior. Shines in golden rays splashing across the dark hardwood floors. Floors missing stray pieces of hay to complete the theme. Air is thick with ill movement, flakes of last night and the night before shimmering in the pools of light. Stools wrenched abstract and awkward, mathematical angles of who occupied and abandoned them hours before. Stained with spills, scars in the oak filled with sticky sediment. Chairs flopped belly-up on table tops. Cragged legs stiff against the ceiling like leafless desert trees.

The TV is on, muted, and hit with the solar flare from the windows. Catches the red scroll of ticker tape in the bottom right corner and knows it's the news. Always news. Always bad. A fire, a beating, a theft, a death. The repetition of his teammate getting blow into bite-sized bits on national television. So glad they could view it coast-to-coast. Wordy's level voice telling him Sam just punched a doctor. Doesn't know why, but was dragged cuffed and coat collared out of the hospital and they had to go bail him out.

Always fucking bailing someone out. It's how it was. Then wasn't. Now was for them and wasn't for him. Used to be a lot easier. A lot simpler to come to work. But things change, even when they stay the same, they change. Even when they change, parts of the past bleed in. Paints in water. Red clothes in whites. Toxic allergens to permeable skin.

If the crests fall and surge into the present he trails it back to when things got complicated. When the simple strings of his life, his family, his job, his friends, and his team became entwined in a knotted ball tight enough the ends of his fingers adopted a glaucous tinge. Seven years. Violent transition seven years ago. Seven years ago the first domino toppled.

A Team of six back then. Six men. Six men who knew how to do their jobs well. Beyond well. Damn near perfection as perfection got. Greg was Sergeant. He was a simple sniper, promoted to Team Leader when the man in the current position, Brian was shot during a negotiation. Left them down a man, down a sniper, out of work, and running trials.

The other team members, the other men, received two days off. The team was close back then. Bleeds into the present. Carpools with Wordy every single day. Has bimonthly bar visits with Rolie who enjoys being a leader instead of a follower. Team Two bitches that he's the new Fitzie. Never got to know Troy because the guy doesn't talk. It's disturbing and off putting. So they ignore each other unless the job demands interaction.

He and Greg ran the trials. Slowly knocked guys out they felt were dangerous. Unstable. Mentally unqualified. Physically unfit. Too close to retirement. The entire time he kept telling Greg not to string along the girl. The skinny, boney girl he assumed was fresh out of some shitty academy because, honesty, he didn't read her profile. Concentrated on the real applicants.

But they whittled the ten finalists down to five. Then to three. And the girl was still there. Flipped herself over the walls in the physical runs. Shot down the targets in half the time during the marksmanship sessions. During the psychological session she became avoidant, answered questions with questions. Became defensive with him, but responsive to Greg. Defused a hypothetical situation with emotional logic. Greg was impressed, he wasn't. It was a hypothetical situation and she was working off intuition not intelligence. Didn't even bat an eye at him, at the other men when the day was over. Just collected her bag and left.

"So who do you like for it?" The sun set over the Toronto skyline and left red bleeding through the bay windows. Only he and Greg remained in the briefing room. The day gave him a sense of authority. Judged candidates openly because he knew his opinion was valid. "I like Hudson. He's big for a sniper, but that means we can use him for close combat if we ever need it. Wordy and Rolie can always use another guy and it's not like Troy's ever going to come out of the damn truck now."

Greg didn't answer. Eyes squinted and scrolled over write-ups from psych exams. Lips pursed together, the corner cracked, released a small, "Huh."

"Well what about Kane?" Hands sprawled over the metal tabletop, hot in the low hanging industrial lights of the pre government imposed environmental redux. "He has lower scores, but so did Rolie when we brought him on and that worked out."

"Actually—" Greg removed his hat. Swooped a hand to survey the sparse hair still clinging to his head. Expression morphed from pensive to confident. Half smile slanted on his lips, he clarified, "I was thinking Callaghan."

"You're kidding."

The folders propelled down the table at him. Three, uneven and jagged. Stacked like bricks but fell like leaves. Pieces of paper, dog-eared and worn, protruded the sides like mocking tongues. "Her stats are better than both of the men combined and the team could benefit from becoming more diversified."

Opened the folders and a picture of each candidate greeted him. Found the jarring eyebrows of the men, the facial hair, thick faces even on Kane, the leaner of the two, normal. She was tiny, scrawny, a woman. She would get hurt. "You don't think hiring her on is bound to cause more problems? More paperwork by subjects mistreating her? Victims? Officers?"

"Think of the times when we could've used a female negotiator. The female suspects. The abuse cases. The rape cases. It can't hurt to have her around."

"We're doing fine without her now." Closed the folders and shot them back in an act of defiance. An act which caused him a deep paper cut along the middle finger of his right hand. He tried not to notice the dull sting. "Greg, you replace Brian with a woman and Troy's going to get even bitchier. They were best friends. And Rolie will—"

"Rolie needs to grow up."

Didn't muffle his scoff. Hidden within was the list of things they were sacrificing so equality could be met. He's all for woman in the workplace. Supported Sophie going back to work after Clark was born. But that was to catering. This is a dangerous job; he wouldn't want Sophie doing this.

"Do you want to add something?"

Shrugged and leaned back in his chair. Might as well be honest. A woman on the team meant serious changes. Meant watching what they say, a step up in professionalism, in attitude. Meant cleaning out the locker room they currently used to store their bags in when they had after work engagements like his hockey or Rolie's rugby. It was also used for their files. At least ten years of paper work sat in musty cardboard boxes. "You can't just add a woman to this team because it's what you want. This isn't like adopting a puppy."

"Fine." Greg nodded. Head and jaw sharp on his neck the action barely existed. Crossed his arms and continued to nod. Lips sealed together as his head bobbed. "We'll put it to a vote."

So they did. During the next pre-shift they collected in the secured briefing room. Metallic doors engaged, ribbed and rigged in place. Impenetrable. No other SRU employee was privilege to their discussion.

He offered a small introduction to Hudson, Sarge did the same for Jules. Working at the SRU kills the nerve endings in faces. Couldn't assess the reactions of his teammates. Only Rolie outwardly portrayed disgust at the prospect of working with a woman. Angled eyebrows. The way his nostril and upper lip twitched. How his index finger jabbed at Greg in disbelief.

Timeless method employed torn bits of copier paper and an overturned ball cap. Everyone wrote down their candidate, Greg included as if the vote came to an even draw; his vote would be the fifth and tiebreaker. After the very first answer it became obviously clear Greg was the only one who voted for the woman. Rolie's vote simply stated 'not the chick'.

Greg tore up the scrapes of paper into smaller fractions until he held confetti. "I'm so disappointed in all of you." Let the bits rain down onto the ground. Fury jittered in his eyes tucked under a low set brow. Took the democratic cap and lowered it back onto his head. "All because she's a woman?"

"It's not that." Wordy washed a hand over his bloodshot eyes. Six weeks ago he and Shelly welcomed their first baby. A daughter named Maddy. She'd been colicky since the day she arrived in the world. According to him, he slept less than two hours a night. "She'd need protecting out there. I'd worry about her."

She'd need protecting from all the things they didn't. She'd be inexperienced from a rookie's point-of-view. Inexperienced from a woman's point-of-view. They would be thrust into a constant state of caring for her and themselves in the field all because Greg wanted a new pet project to distract him from Brian's death. Leaned on his elbows, glanced directly at Greg and restated, "She'd change the team dynamics."

Troy didn't utter a word. Wasn't much of a conversationalist before. Sat in the truck, typed up stats on the computer while they did heavy duty stuff. Disarmed bombs while they all sat in the truck. Laughed with Brian like they all did. Just kept his harsh brows slanted as he smoldered holes into the tabletop.

"She's a chick." Rolie slammed both his hands to the table. Shocked Wordy's sleep slumped back straight and his eyes wide open. Troy didn't twitch a muscle. "She'll want my dick."

"Rolie." Greg's thumb and forefinger pinched the bridge of his nose. Voice became squeaky from nasal entrapment. Never did find the uncouth humor funny. Just uncouth. "You haven't even seen her yet."

"I don't have to, she'll want me."

Greg's arm craned to massage the back of his neck. Bad habit. Poker game tell. Bad hand. In a bad hot call, a tough negotiation. "Well it's times like these I'm glad this doesn't have to be a democracy."

"What are you talking about?" Fatigue still clutched Wordy's speech, but his eyes were open again. Russet eyes engaged because they'd both understood what Greg had done. Understood and felt the same sense of dread.

"I already approved her and told her she got the job earlier this morning."

Rolie's chair screeched with offense. He pushed back from the table. Stopped himself from wheeling too far and chucked his arms in the air. "Then what the fuck was this all for?"

"To see how you guys would handle it. You all failed by the way. You can't let personal problems whether historical, familial or narcissistic interfere with how you conduct yourself on the team."

"Really Greg," Muttered, sort of twisted in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He was a Team Leader. This was supposed to be one of the first big decisions he had final decision in. Stolen from him for cathartic self purposes. "We're not the ones trying to build a substitute family."

"I'm glad to hear that. So you all won't mind helping me clear out the woman's locker room for the newest member of Team One." Voice burrowed to a dangerous octave. One seldom heard unless he was defending a teammate. Defending the use of lethal action in order to save the life of a teammate. Defending himself against those who blamed him for Brian's death. "And if I hear her complain about one thing you've done, I'll write you up on the spot."

"No warnings?"

"This." Greg leaned forward on the table. Index finger drilled into the table. Joints whitened as the pressure of his body turned his fingertip bright red. "This is your warning Rolie. No teasing, no harassing, no threats, and definitely no hazing."

The next Monday Jules officially joined the team. Christened the newly sanctioned woman's locker room which took a full Saturday to rid of files. Though she didn't fit into their preset conditions, her curves clashing with their angled locker room antics and frat boy regimes, she integrated better than any of them really expected.

During times of high duress, or in certain situations when they did become too rowdy, she acted indifferent. When Sarge cleared his throat, declaring they do something better with their time, the subtext was clearly to behave themselves, she'd glance up from files or from a workout machine and nonchalantly state, "It's fine. I have four brothers."

Her collected attitude around them was refreshing at first. They didn't have to change their protocol to adapt hers. Didn't have to let a rookie and to a lesser extent, a woman, teach them how to act. Her indifference was even unperturbed by Rolie's constant onslaught of pickup lines which rested on a creaky diving board over a pool of sexual harassment. She either pretended not to hear him, completely ignored him, or the times when he physically engaged her, shot him down with a scathingly intelligent answer.

Couldn't really approach Rolie about it. Didn't want to destroy a three year friendship over the slight mistreatment of a rookie, which wouldn't even be a factor if she was male. But one night when they were out drinking, Rolie made a poignant declaration in his state of half inebriation.

"Bitch thinks she's better than us."

"She does not, Rolie." Wordy shook his head. Eyes squinting in disgust. Never could put up with Rolie's attitude towards woman. As the new father of a daughter, his temper on the subject was now nonexistent.

Initially he agreed with Wordy. Jules had given no indication of arrogance. Didn't try to change any of the rules. Didn't complain whenever or with whatever position she was given in a hot call. Never argued about a better way of handling a hot call for a better outcome. As far as rookies went she was in the top percent.

But then Rolie took another swig of his beer. Most of it missed his mouth. Ran rampant down his chin, and drizzled onto the counter. "Does she ever talk? Does she ever say a goddamn thing? It's because she thinks she knows the answers already. I know her type. They're all bitches."

From the mouth of a drunk man, things had never seemed clearer.

September marked the end of her three month probationary period. Also happened to be when the SRU held a competition between all five teams. Each team participated in an obstacle and marksmanship course. The team with the highest score received a free dinner courtesy of Commander Holleran. Jules' first year at the competition was the last year it ran.

For the last three years they'd won. Not only won, but enjoyed the dinner and racked up quite a healthy bar tab at Willy's Bar and Grille. They went to the same restaurant every year and it became an unopposed tradition. With shaded eyes and flat brows, he, Rolie, and even Troy observed each other. They didn't want to lose and dishonor Brian. They didn't want to lose because of a rookie. Didn't want to lose because of a woman.

But the hostility, the borderline fear was misplaced because they won. Not only did they win, but they set a new record. Forgot how well Jules did in her trials. How she could fling herself over walls with ease. How she was a better sniper than Brian. Not twitchy or rushed. Every shot received the proper respect, proper time.

The downfall came afterwards. After the general celebration when they'd all showered and changed. When they huddled around the empty dispatch desk deciding on a time to meet up at Willy's. She popped out of her locker room, now adorned with the nameplate they had especially made for her after her first day so Greg would know how serious they were about treating her right. Rolie said it made the locker room like her very own dog house.

"Jules," Greg beckoned her over with a lazily wave of his hand. His hat turned backwards on his head. Fell off in the locker room from all the festive head pats. "How does Willy's Bar and Grille sound? They're the fresh seafood place by the Lake."

"Umm actually, I don't really like seafood. I can't really stomach it." Gaze turned downwards, in subjects; in victims it indicates a lie. Should've know it was a lie. But she covered the expository action by hiking up her massive brown purse, reestablished eye contact. "Probably from growing up in the prairies."

"We always go to Willy's. He doesn't cut you off until he closes." Barely noticed Rolie's threatening growl. The way his feet pigeon toed on the ground, the stance he adopted before tackling a suspect. More relieved he didn't mention anything about prairie oysters.

"You guys go. I wouldn't want—"

"No." Greg stepped forward, asserted himself between Jules and Rolie. Narrowed his eyes into a warning as he intercepted the anger directed at her. "We won this was a team. We'll enjoy it as a team."

"Really Sarge." She smiled. Full, flashy, truthful. But her fingers dug and pried into the gleaming material on her purse strap. "It's fine. Really. I want to start the backdrop in my kitchen anyways."

Said goodnight and nothing more was said on the subject. By her. Greg lectured until his mouth went dry. The same old things about how they were a team and they needed to respect everyone on the team. How they all depended and defended each other. They ate at Willy's but the dinner wasn't in mirthful celebration. Their attitudes weren't jovial. They were dimmed with imposed guilt they didn't need to feel.

He and Rolie had enough. Agreed as a rookie she was silent and obedient, but somehow managed to fuck up their routine. Greg ended the night early, being the designated driver meant the majority of the Team would consent if they didn't want to spring for a cab. Wordy didn't complain, wanted to go home to the wife and daughter. Troy, as always, didn't utter a word.

Wordy examined him with a cautious eye when he announced he was staying behind with Rolie to make sure he got home safely. It was an obvious lie since they were far beyond the legal driving limit. After the Team left, they had a final drink, discussed their plans, and made one final purchase. Not alcoholic, but still on Holleran's tab. The thing which would save their jobs and abort any further competitions.

At five the next morning Jules was already in the workout room. Body swayed softly in the start of a jog as she listened to music on noise cancelling earphones. He and Rolie were in the men's locker room. Both fighting haranguing hangovers, but almost tickled with a level of excitement they hadn't experienced since before she joined the team.

Held a Styrofoam container with a single oyster on the half shell. Sophie asked what it was when he brought it home and he told her to leave it. It was for work.

"I don't think you guys should do this." Wordy's eyes were the color of deep wines in expensive restaurants. Puffy round the rims, leaked from the corners. He rubbed at one with his knuckles. "Sarge said not to haze her."

"It's a little friendly joking, Wordy." Carefully transferred the oyster, like an active explosive, from the bed of melting ice, to Rolie's cupped hand. "We do worse every day and she doesn't say a damn thing."

"I've got four brothers." Rolie voiced in falsettos and batted his lashes. Hand closed perfectly around the mollusk to hide it.

"But maybe we should—"

"And maybe if she wants to be on Team One she should learn how to play with the big boys." Left Wordy shaking his head in the locker room, while he trailed Rolie out to the lobby.

Forked from the path as Rolie took the back access to the workout room through the hallway from the briefing room. He stopped at the entrance and watched as her gait grew stronger in stride, but her footsteps never clomped on the machine. Always silent, always stealth.

Signaled her with a waggle of his index finger and she dismounted the machine, removed her earbuds. While she approached him, he sidestepped so the treadmill she'd been using would be obscured from her view by the wall. From his height, he could make out what he needed to see. Her water bottle.

"What's up?" She was a little out of breath; a light sheen of sweat poked its way across her forehead.

Rolie crept into the weight room. Used the same steps and technique they do on calls. Same precise footing to encroach on her machine and the black aluminum bottle left unsupervised.

"I don't know if Greg has told you yet, but in October they're introducing a new accuracy test." He spoke only half truths. The test wasn't really that new. Just a reinstatement of an older test they'd all been forced to retake because too many kill shots were beginning to miss. It really wouldn't be that hard for her, but the conversation ran long enough to distract her.

Used his peripherals to watch the flawless instatement of oyster. Nimble fingers circled the cap. The tipped gray shell. Imagined the silent splash. The recapping and agitation of her bottle. Rolie gave him the thumbs up and settled her bottle back in the cup holder.

"You should probably hit the range just to be sure." Turned away from at the end of his sentence. Rolie left the workout room and there was no need continuing to talk to her.

"Yeah." Agreement drew long in hesitation as her eyes slimmed. Suspected something but didn't know what. Maybe too distracted with the backhanded compliment. "Maybe. Thanks."

Ponytail slapped her back with her rotation, just as swift as his. The small victory of unnerving her made the day an achievement. She climbed back on the treadmill, replaced her earbuds, poked at a few buttons and in a minute had regained her speed.

Rejoined the Team five minutes later. Slowly filtered into the room and picked out their starter machines. He and Rolie ignored each other. Afraid if they shared a single knowing glance the entire operation would be ruined.

Finally her machine beeped and the tread stuttered until it stopped. She stepped off at the side, sneakers hit the floor, breathed heavy with one hand on her hip, the other on her water bottle. Unscrewed the top and brought the wrung to her mouth, tilted her head back and took a large gulp. Too this day he still sees this memory in slow motion, but not for the same reasons.

Figured she would spit it out. Thought at the very worse she would throw up. But it turned out worse. So much worse. Her skin blushed, flushed, cleared to splotches and blotches of red on a field of white ice. She coughed. Coughed and coughed. Thought she was going to throw it up. Tried to stay upright by holding onto the padded handlebars curving out of the treadmill, but her fingers slipped when she slapped them down. Whole body caved in.

Before he even understood something was wrong with her. That his hazing, the trick he and Rolie played on her had gone dangerously wrong, Greg was at her side. Cycle machine beeped, wailed in abandonment as he attempted to compose her swiftly bloating body.

They all have an unearned sense of superiority. Especially Sam. Figured out Sam before the second round of beers showed up at the table. From his leers and his sneers. His lips licks and quick eye darts when Jules glanced away. Told Greg he was bad. Told him to transfer him. Stick him on Rolie's team for God sake and let that bastard tear him apart. But Sarge said it was above his head.

Instead the obvious happened. The main reason he objected to Jules joining the Team bloomed to fruition. He was left with two star-crossed lovelorn snipers who turned aggressive when their love was snuffed out. When their love became dangerous and resulted in her removal for four months. Then she asked for Sam last night. Out of all of them, asked for Sam. After she was raped. All he could see was the collapse of the Team from the bulldozing selfishness they wrap themselves in while burying everyone else.

"Well howdy cowboy."

Behind the bar, stands the same girl, the same bartender from last night, her hand hidden under a white towel and forced into a series of identical glasses. Current does three repetitions before being removed and set, lip down, on the counter beside two others. "Don't tell me you showed up for 'Rope a Stag Night'? You're about twelve hours early but I love the energy."

Black tank top from last night exchanged for a black t-shirt. Sun stained and faded from too many laundry cycles. There's a hole in the left shoulder where stitching in the seams unfurls. A little black worm weaving in and out of the dark cotton. Her multicolored hair harnessed into a braid. Thick and rainbowed, it bounces at her mid back.

"Actually, I'm here on police business."

Hand rings around the lower half of a Pilsner glass as she dries it, then discards the towel. Skin on her palm blanches from the force of her grasp. Lotused fingernails drag along empty glassware. Thumb flicking up over the bottom rim in slow strokes. "You gonna bad cop me?"

Ignores her hands, what they're doing. Things he hasn't seen done in awhile. Instead finds her eyes. A light shade of blue buried beneath lashes gunked together. Liner tracks around the brims, too dark, too much, but somehow offsets the natural blue irises even in the wake of the pink shadow smothering her lids. "Is your manager in? Because I'm not here to—"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Overturned cup, clean and pleasured, is set beside its brothers. Plump pink lips pillow together and she digs her elbows onto the counter. The t-shirt modest enough to hide anything her chest might offer up. "I'll help anyway I can."

The picture of Scott adheres to the counter when he tries to slide it across. His face, dark eyes with dots of light reflecting from the camera flash stare up empty at him. Empty like the cups. Empty like he was when he came into the bar last night and Scott was holed up in the corner. Fresh scratches cut in the tattoos inked to his arms.

"Have you seen this man before?"

Raccooned eyes flick down to the stuck picture, then back up at him. She repeats the action once more before one of her hands lands palm down on a misshapen hip. "What Hooper?" When he offers her no response she scrolls her eyes left at an imaginary accomplice. "Yeah, he comes in here Tuesdays after his factory shift. I think he works construction too because you don't get a body like that by just—"

The picture screeches as he peels it from the bar top. Duct tape fresh off the roll. Paper in strips off the wall. A gluey residue purely fabricated from the establishment. "If you see him again, call the police. Don't try to keep him here. Just call the police and tell them he's here."

Wide mouth hangs agape, unhinges at the jaw like an asp. Two rows of absolutely perfect, flawless teeth, but the appearance of too many. Pink tongue flat and tempting. Rattling. "You're kidding me? The heat's on Hooper? What'd he do?"

"Just call the police if you see him."

"Maybe I will and maybe I won't." Fully folded into the counter now. Majority of her weight puddling on her chest and folded arms. Face expresses she isn't threatened by him, by his silence or what he thinks is a menacing enough glare. "I want to know how much danger I'm in here. Like did he murder someone?"

"He attacked a woman in her house." Completely against protocol, but then again so is everything that's happened since last night. The meeting this morning. Sam not being fired for assaulting a civilian. Spike's own attack on public property. Even Roy tipping them off. Maybe he tells her so that another woman doesn't get hurt. Maybe he tells her because it's his time to break the rules. "It would probably be in your best interest to call the police if you see him."

"He didn't—you know." Bobs her head forward in a juvenile action. Irises watching him through chunky lashes. He doesn't answer that because he doesn't feel comfortable. Didn't explaining it to Sophie this morning over his third cup of coffee. Rough hand circling over his oily eyelids, over time-stained corneas. She didn't hug him, didn't really do anything but hold her fingers to her lips for a few moments, then asked if Jules was going to leave the Team. He wondered the same thing.

"Oh my God he didn't. Did he? Because—I mean, I've been there. A few times. He was really overly sensitive. An asker. You know the type of guy who always asks, 'there?' 'Is there okay?' 'You like th—'"

"Just call the police if he comes into the bar again."

The back of the picture stains his hands. Like the past stains his eyes. Stains his personality. Creates him as a character he really isn't but has to be because he can't be who he was. People, the people in his life mold him. Force him. Can't joke around at work anymore because someone might get hurt. Because the rookies are so goddamn incompetent the Team gets hurt on and off shift. Can't joke around at home anymore because Sophie and him aren't on the same wavelength. Jokes are construed from a different point-of-view, her point-of-view and then he has to spend half the night explaining why he needs to be out drinking with the guys.

Shoes tap the hardwood as he turns to leave. Five pointed star motions him to the street. Foot bonds to the ground on the first step. The other slips on buffed down wood, dyed gray and white from overexertion.

"Wait." Her shoes clack. Obviously high heeled, she slides much like he did. Not using the trough he imagines is ploughed back there from the various shifts of bartenders. "You're not going to send extra police to stakeout the bar or something?"

Ten lotuses clasp at the counter as she rebuilds her stance. A work of art when immobile, but a clumsy retriever when in motion. Acts like she's wearing hockey skates. "We don't want to tip him off."

"The woman." Chained hair flips behind her back again. Left arm stretches out, bicep muscle unnoticeable under firm bouncy skin. Hand returns with the neck of the whiskey bottle. Caresses it like the Pilsner glass. Thumb licking sultrily at the lid. "Did you know her?"

Hypnotizes him. The coils appearing at the mouth of the bottle. The coupling of the metallic lid with the glass against her nail and skin. The way her thumb works tirelessly until it pops. "Yeah."

The lid exploding spills a bit of whiskey against her hand. Pours a tumbler half full of the liquid. No ice cubes. Likes it's straight up. Likes it's unadulterated. If he's going to drink, he's going to drink. "You fucking her?"

Attention still on her hand. Golden liquid like the sunshine bursting through the windows. No longer lazy, active in its achievements. Globes of whiskey decorate her flower, her thumb, dot random over her palm. Tiny drops of concentrated beams against the orange glow of her firm skin. "I said I had a wife, didn't I?"

Tongue toddles out of her mouth. Does a full swoop of her lower lip before falling to her hand and lapping up the beads. Swirling and twirling. Collecting Easter eggs. Tongue smacks against her upper lip before they purse together with the soft shock of alcohol. "Doesn't answer my question."

"No." Licks at his own bottom lip because he can taste it. The whiskey. The expected burn from throwing his head back and letting it plummet down his throat. The scent of coconut, probably from a tanning salon and the overuse of hairspray. "I work with her."

"Well, you seem pretty on edge about it." Doesn't wipe her hand to her pants. Her apron. Her top. Uses it to coax the tumbler towards him. The same liquid from the same bottle tempts him. Sloshes back and forth in a calm undulation like ocean waves. Like the waves from the past rippling into the present to stain him. The waves of the present rippling forth to stain him later. "Stay and talk with me."

"I can't."

"You on duty?"

"No."

"So why can't you?"

She blinks once, lashes almost melting together. Corners of her lips hook into a sly grin as her head arches just the slightest to accent the question. To leave a decision up to him. The expression is recognizable. Desire and the want to be desirable. He's seen it before. Recently in the workout room. Quick coquettish glances between Sam and Jules. An almost smile shared between them and then washed away like words scrawled into the surf as the tide comes in.

Didn't want Jules on the Team because as soon as a woman is dumped into an all male environment more than just gender politics begin. Emotions start to develop. Sexual desire, which is as dangerous as any rifle, develops. It never hit him. But he predicted and watched like a minor in a horror movie as it overtook Sam. He honestly thought she was smart enough to see through it, to deny it, to ignore it. Love is love. It's a great thing and in clichés it makes the world go round. It doesn't belong in the workplace especially when the Team's lives belong in each other's hands and those hands are too busy grabbing at each other's body parts.

Then she got shot which is a viable outcome when sniper eyes are clouded with sentiments. Greg, maybe to teach him a second lesson, brought on another woman. They replaced her with Donna. Replaced her with Donna and he watched Sam fume, because they replaced her. People, teammates, anyone on the Team was replaceable. Like a light bulb, like a tire, like any random piece of furniture. There was no inherent humanism in it.

But Donna. With Donna it hit him. It hit him again and again. One of the good things about not being a rookie is being more experienced. She'd been undercover, knew how to keep things quiet. He knew how not to look at her with stars in his eyes. It's why no one knew. Knows. Ever will know. It's why she doesn't define him and why he can still stand to be around her. Wanted to keep them apart and her around. Ripples from the now and into the future. Again and again.

"One drink."

* * *

><p>The machine bleeped at him. Red button blinked as the path, which existed only within the stationary cycle, curved to a craggy mountain. Always did at eight minutes in. The same rugged path, cliff side gnarled away by millennia of winds and rains. Minute in occurrence, but in reoccurrences carry the force of a juggernaut.<p>

A thump shook the well rooted workout room symphony. Clanging weights, squeal of shoes on rubber tread, his machine's whir of resistance as he plotted each pedal. Eyes darted, seeking the misplaced sound. Found her water bottle cringing on the floor. Rolled as it emptied itself in a dull semicircle.

Thought it was a misstep. A slip of the wrist. Sweaty fingers against the condensation on metallic surface. But then she coughed. Cheeks exploded, burst with air and deflated as quickly. Skin flushed, blotched. Adopted an autumn shadow. Like lounging in a park under a maple tree. The leaves left different shadowed hues on her skin.

Skin bumped and grew like a science experiment. Cracked at her waist. Bent completely straight. Arms embraced her midsection. Back angled. She wheezed in a deep inhalation, tremored her entire body as one arm blindly, falsely swiped for the handlebar on the treadmill in a grasp for stability.

His cycling slowed to below the acceptable RPM and the screen flashed a warning to him. Speed up or get off. Busy drivers honking on the highway. The ultimatum his wife—ex-wife spat three years ago. Her desperate hand relaxed against the bars. Tumbled face first into the floor.

"Jules?" Noodled legs descended the machine, left foot catching on a heightened pedal. Gave him a bit of the stumbles as he ran to her. Flipped her small, bloating frame onto her back and found her lips swollen open. Two invisible pieces of cotton holding them in place. The dips around her eyes began to bloom, slowly puckered the lids shut. "Jesus, someone call 9-1-1."

"Thurst."

"I don't think you can drink right now, Jules." Fixed her legs on the butterfly machine, up just a little over her head. Nothing to strenuous. Troy ran to tell dispatch. Ed, Rolie and Wordy didn't move. Worked with each for more than a year and have never seen them blank as bad on a call. Stalled like car engines beside their machines. Just stood. Eyes wide. Minds empty.

"Nnnn." Chubby, ballooning hand with fat cylindrical fingers slapped his ankle as her head rocked. "Phirst."

"You don't have any water left." Punted her water bottle out of the way, but a stench wafted from the puddle of spilled liquid on the floor. Some of it actually curdled against the tiles. Mounded in a clear creamy color. Bundled in blobs. Opened his nostrils and inhaled a familiar assaulting odor, realized it was so recognizable because of the dinner last night. The dinner she politely declined because—

Dropped to his knees beside her, both eyes now visibly swollen shut. Ears tried to assume his location. Wasn't successful, head slanted away from him as her wheezing increased. "Where's your Epipen?"

Didn't answer him, maybe preoccupied with pain, with breathing, with the sound of her blood pressure damming in her ears. His hand rested on her shoulder gently and she flinched with a yelp. The kind of yelp dissectible and discernible. The kind he can interpret things from and doesn't want to. The kind that told him more than seven years of psych consults ever could.

So he buried it with the thousands of other things he doesn't want to know. Locks it away in a chest. Throws it into the cavern in his own mind. Lets it sink to the bottom with a few air bubbles. Doesn't think about it, maybe on rare occasions, but then his mind jumps quickly to other things. The playoffs. What's for dinner. Even ordered shirts off the internet once.

"Sorry. It's me. It's Greg." Whispered it. Not condescending. She wasn't a child. Wasn't an animal. Hand flopped around, a ghost appendage. He caught it and held it because she let him. Clown like, large, rubbery. Like someone blew up a sterile glove for entertainment. "Jules. Jules listen. Do you have an Epipen?"

Head twitched. Could be a nod or a shake. Waited for elaboration and between twin wheezes she answered, "Perst." Slipped through as her grating teeth siphoned air.

Felt annoyance. Aggravation. Didn't know what she wanted. Why she wanted a drink. What she was trying to tell him by sayin—But then he understood perfectly. Mind stumbled over audible slurs from an exploded tongue. "Your purse. There's one in your purse?"

"Mmhm. Tah." Her head copied the prior twitch, fingers dropped until two tapped his palm. Two Epipens in her purse.

"Someone go get her purse." Her arm drooped. Fattened and ridged like it was replaced with a fallen branch of a tree. "Go."

"Greg." Ed sighed before he even took a step forward. Laconic in a situation which begged for the opposite. Nodded his head at her. "We don't have the keys to her locker room."

Would've sent them to dispatch, but they were without an active officer until a replacement could be found. Just had a random set of rookie temps, who didn't arrive on time and even if they did they wouldn't know where the keys were.

Heaved in, a rattled wheeze and her hips twisted. Feet rocked on the butterfly's cushion. Clip glistened on her belt loop. Sets of keys. House, car, locker room. A snap. Just had to unhook it. "Jules. The keys— the guys—your purse."

"Mmhm."

Didn't know exactly what happened. Still doesn't know exactly what happened and he's been having coffee with her every second Tuesday for seven years. But he treats her the same way. Treats her like one of the guys, but with a little more respect because she deserves it. Whenever he has to do something like this, like after she was shot and he visited her in the hospital, he's meticulous on how he touches her. Because whether either of them is willing to admit it, something did happen.

A snap, a jingle and the keys sailed across the room into Ed's impatient hands. He disappeared just as Troy did. Removed from the situation, but for different reasons. Her eyes fully inflated, maybe closed, but her wheezing leveled. "Rolie go wait in the briefing room."

"What?" Glanced at Wordy and then over each of his shoulders with a small spin. Like a second Rolie was receiving punishment. "Why?"

"Because Commander Holleran will be in to deal with your suspension details."

"Boss, come on." Steps chewed up the ground. Plodded and shook lenient pulleys from weights.

Fixed a piece of her hair, mangled to her face and embedded into the engorged skin. Pried it away and gently replaced it behind her ear. Didn't move. Didn't say a word. Just was. "Was I in any way unclear about what I said would happen if you acted—"

"It was just hazing."

"I said no hazing."

"How the fuck was I supposed to know she was allergic to oysters?"

"This is why we don't haze."

Hallway overflowed with squeaks. Timed in loping pairs as Ed returned to the room, big brown purse clutched firmly between his two hands. "Got it, Boss."

"Good." Slipped the zipper open in silence and realized this might be a breach on her privacy. From the grinning maw his eyes darted up at Ed who observed like he was aiding with a surgery. "Go with Rolie to the briefing room."

"Wha—"

"He'll explain it."

"Greg, I need to know she's going to be okay."

"Then you shouldn't have poisoned her."

"I told you guys not to."

Wrenched his head towards Wordy who still hadn't budged from his machine. "You knew?"

"Yeah but—"

"Wordy," Shook his head as it fell to her bag again. To her stillness. Dropped a blind hand inside and prayed to find an Epipen with ease. It was a terrifying tactile experience. Hard corners. Soft threads. "I laid out the rules so simply. So specifically. Both of you go to the briefing room."

Ed muttered something, loud enough so he knew it was said, just not what was said. It's how it was in the earlier days. Wordy was the only one not to argue his position, only nodded in agreement and accepted his penance. They left the workout room. The teammate who helped them win. Stood beside them as an equal even though none of them seem to think she was. Their teammate who stopped making noise completely.

"Jules." Stopped his investigation of her purse. Observed her plump body, the quick pumps of her stomach. "Jules?" Slapped his hand to her shoulder and shook her. Shook her harder and harder to the response of no slurred words or twitchy reactions.

"Shit."

Ripped at the mouth of her purse, rifled through the innards. The sweater, the papers, the book, the package of gum, the wallet. The clasp of his watch latched on to an inner zipper. A compartment big enough for—Unzipped it and sure enough, there were her Epipens nestled in with two tampons. Taboo. Eviscerated the whole thing, might have actually ripped the inner pocket from the purse. Shoved the tampons and everything else back in and threw her bag to the side.

"Jules?" Beckoned her again, but she was a waterlogged corpse. Stiff, immobile, unconscious, unresponsive. The fear usurped. The fear of loss of life over the fear of prior life. Over what her father might have done. Could have done.

Ready pen jammed to her thigh. The hardness of her thigh. Received resistance from her body's responses. From the muscles she's spent the last three months building up every day. The inside of her thigh. Remembered too late was supposed to be the outside. With Dean it was always the outside. Had only ever done it once before with Dean. School kids and peanut butter attracts. It's hard to divide. Two times with Jules.

Waited ten minutes. Ten minutes is nothing. Ten minutes drips by in his life now. From the SRU to his car. From his car to the liquor store. From the car to his house. Then, then it was a lifetime. Could have been a life as he waited for something. Held her hand and waited for her to burst from the dead. From the shell of her engorged, hard body.

Paramedics arrived and swept her away, purse and all. Wired and tubed. Didn't want to abandon her. Not after what happened because he felt completely responsible. Figured the team could handle a woman on it and they almost intentionally killed her. Not after sensing her past. Didn't want her waking up to two male paramedics. Ended up staying at the SRU for almost three hours because things still needed sorting.

Holleran attempted to corral him. Tried to get him to calm down. Lower his intended punishments. Caught his arm on the way out of the building and for a moment the chain of command didn't exist. He expressed someone could have died for the old 'boys will be boys' method they've let slide for too long and perhaps it's time those boys grew up into men. His orders stayed. Wordy received a day's suspension without pay. Rolie and Ed a week.

Finally found her in the emergency room. Perched on the side of a gurney. Quaking hands yanked her running shoe onto a flexing foot. Thought she might topple forward into a somersault. Purse flopped masticated at the foot the bed. Her arms and her neck in the shadow of her ponytail still carried the hint of blotches. Beautiful animal patterns. Lips were resettling, jostled flakes in a snowglobe.

Eyes plummeted to original settings. Appeared painful, bruised. When he saw her yesterday he thought of her crescent body tugging on a pristine white running shoe. Huffing in exacerbation. Shoulders rising like the tide to protect her face, her body. A pre-flinch.

"Jules?" Offered it to her in his softest voice. Was ready to absorb all the fury she could throw at him. It was his fault. Leader of the Team who tried to martyr her. Thought he knew his teammates, his friends better than he did. It's not what hurt though, the lack of respect, not only to himself, but to her. It was dangerous, it was primeval.

Flinched. Shoulders engaged as her head ducked down, protected her face fully. Half shoe forgotten. Weaseled into while the sole of her foot flattened against the floor.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I can wait outside."

"No." Lips apex, tips tapped into a makeshift squeeze. Eyes carved their way back into pleasant arches. Fingers tickled the air as she weaved the laces of her shoes up, torso compressed into her thighs. "No, there's just been random doctors bursting in and out of here. You're fine."

"Are they releasing you?"

"Yeah, um." Tucked chin length bangs behind her ears. Finger dashed across her face, passive penknife. Left white strokes in her blushed skin. "The shaking is from the medicine. I needed another dose and it's always—I'm sorry."

The apology was a physical shove. Wasn't the type of woman to apologize for weakness. Especially misconstrued weakness. "You're—You're sorry?"

"I should've told you about my allergy. I mean, it's in my personal file and everything but—" Shaking hand reached back to fix or find solace in her limp ponytail. Ended up tearing it out by the force of the jolts. "I should've told you."

Slipped inside the curtain with a heavy sigh. A head negotiator who didn't know how to talk to any member of his team. "You should have Jules, but for your own protection."

"I shouldn't be on this team." Shoulders hooked back as her neck and head dropped. A hint of emotion in her voice, but still void from her face. Maybe the last shred of her perseverance. Maybe unable to shed tears from the smothering of her eyes. "I'm a liability."

"You know that's not true." Steps seemed natural but were strategic. Determined how comfortable she was with his presence after what had happened. Today. In the past. "With you the Team won the competition. We set a new record. You have better accuracy and skill than any sniper I've seen in a long time. Your size gives you an advantage at rappelling—"

"Sarge, none of that means a thing if I go down because someone throws a shrimp at me." Eyes fallen, sunken back onto stark cheekbones. Pupils danced in despair.

"Then we'll put you in the truck anytime we even drive by Lakeshore. You can try your hand at doing intel."

"It's not that simp—"

"It's only as difficult as you make this Jules. If you want to treat this like some disability, then I can draw up transfer papers and have you out of here by the end of the week." Almost flinched again with the hurt bleeding from his honest answer. She shifted away from him, back a few inches on the bed as sat in the chair across. "But you've been doing this for three months now and the first time it became a major issue was at HQ."

"What about Troy?"

"If he ever wants to make it to Team Leader, he's going to need a lot more in the field action. He'll appreciate it whether he shows it or not."

That was the day everything changed for him. For the Team. The day their antics almost took the life of one of their own. The day he finally took the reins of the power imbued to him almost two years ago. The day the Team realized he wasn't just some pushover, that they could disobey direct orders, endanger lives and get away with it.

It also became the day he learned more about Jules. Grew to appreciate her in a different way he appreciates the rest of the Team. The day he drove her home after confiscating her cell phone so she couldn't call a cab. Promised to pick her up in the morning for work so she could retrieve her Jeep from the lot. The day they set up their coffee meets where he slowly worked at the million piece jigsaw puzzle of her back story. Still doesn't even have the border. The day he took one of her Epipens and stuck it in the pocket of his uniform. The day he decided that if he had a daughter, he'd like her to be like Jules. The day he knew he'd never have a daughter, so Jules would have to do.

And that's why it hurt him so much. Watched the woman he handpicked from trials. The one he secretly protected the best he could from the men on the Team but didn't have to, because she could protect herself. The one who always strived to do beyond her best to impress him. The one he praised more than any of the others. But he couldn't protect her. Her best wasn't good enough. He couldn't praise her for what she did because it didn't result in anything congratulatory. She survived. She fought and she survived, but now what? Now what?

Drove her home. Her modern gothic style manor snatched at a real estate auction and fixed by hand. Updated him every day on what she did the night before. Slowly drilled away at the screws in the window. Scratched away at glue from wall paper, until it started to get done too fast. That and blue paint and he knew. It was interesting and entertaining how much pride she took in her home. Even from the beginning. She pointed it out from the end of the street. Tollbooth arm wavering out the window.

"The one with the dark green fence. That's home."

It's home. Her home. Not so safe anymore. In the draw of a breath things changed. In a blink of an eye, her house, her home, her fortress became a jail. A jail he somehow has to be welcomed into. Doesn't want to be. Wants to be at his own apartment, his own home, own fortress where the rusted afternoon light blinks over a half full bottle of scotch on his kitchen table. A cup neighbors it, melted ice cube innards, with sultry refreshing residue.

Pinches between two doors. Two large doors which didn't do their job. Two wooden doors, sanded into perfect smooth angles. Above him the cotton sky lets out a dull bellow. Like the hollow grumble of a forever empty stomach calling for something it can't have. Like his since he's left a certain bottle on his kitchen table.

Knock again. Leave. Can't leave. She has to get the information somehow. Arteries of the Team are slowly clogging up. Found a weak optimism in her requesting Sam last night. Couldn't be a pillar, still can't and having the burden lifted from his back pre-collapse would have been a welcome change. Only it didn't help. Had to deal with a half drunk, squalling Spike. Expressed the infinite concern he couldn't. Indulged in the infinite release he couldn't. Had to root in appalling case files to find a solution which hardened and dug out his stomach to make a flask for the scotch.

Now he has limited channels to contact her through. Sam's been denied access, unforeseeable but not really surprising. The mentality of it, their history however complicated or uncomplicated it is simply reduces to the basics of their physicality. Sam's had sex with the subje—her. It may be the drive behind all his erratic emotions and outburst at the doctor, but it's definitely the reason for her not being able to keep his company.

Wordy refuses to even see her because of past strife. Going through the rape of a loved one once is enough for a life time. Has personal knowledge on the subject which could help, but keeps it bottled because stringy memories cement to it like cobwebs in rafters. Ed is more active than passive. Would rather catch who hurt her than actually deal with her personally. The same thing happened after she was shot indirectly by his means. A little too indirectly for coincidence to be considered. Sent him away so he didn't pine until it became uncomfortable.

Spike, well he has no idea where the hell Spike is. He's been trying to contact him all morning. Before, after, and during their makeshift meeting to discuss Scott, his appearance, his haunts, his need to physically force himself into Jules' home and then upon her. During Sam's write up for physically assaulting a physician which he never did get a reason for. During his grapple with wanting to go home and chug half a bottle of scotch and maybe needing to go home and chug half a bottle of scotch. After he received a call from downtown with important news. He's not a pillar. Can't be this time around. He's a pillar of salt.

A solid thump behind her door. Remembers things. Her bottle doing water aerobics on the workout room floor. Things he shouldn't. Kaleidoscopes of bruises. Bundled like grapes, some rolling free from the main mass. Tumbling down the slithering sinew of vines. Formed from being crushed, masticated, and popped in palettes. Even share the same general color.

The wooden door creaks open without even a slight hesitation. Cryptic. Didn't phone ahead to announce his arrival because he was call repeating Spike, who still hasn't answered. Spike who he's going to have to visit after this. Cages depressive feelings. Guilty feelings. And not listen to the Lew's of the situation as he nods, offering a kind word while day dreaming of the soft hum of the TV and a cool glass in his hand.

But it's not for that reason. It's because she doesn't give a goddamn anymore. The finale played before the premiere. Disrupted the natural flow of things and spoiled the remains. It's not Jules anymore. Never will be again. Not his Jules. Even bloated like a puffer fish she wasn't like this. Eye an electric red blanketing her pupil, scanning over him once.

"You didn't bring coffees. It was your turn." A drunk's slurred mumble. One he's sure he's adopted more than a handful of times, will adopt more than a few more. Her bottom lip looks similar to what it did when the allergen touched it. Distended, engorged. But this time there's black and blue similar to the hundreds of corpses he's seen. Thick white stitching linking down the middle reminiscent to how cadavers are sewn up after autopsies. Her back turns to him as she retreats into her home. Her fortress, but the door stays open its crack. Allows him amnesty.

She's right. It was his turn for the coffees. But he didn't even think of it. Didn't even think of it because he wasn't craving coffee. Won't be until someone force feeds it to him through a straw or a sippy cup to sober him up. Besides isn't the idea of bringing food as an offering a little tastele—She's not much for receiving gifts.

Learned that after she was shot. She hates flowers. Learned that from her birthday and how no one can know when the sacred day actually is. Even Spike doesn't have permission to hack her file. Educated him on a few things over the years but there's still so much he doesn't know. So many banned subjects. Sam for one. He's thankful for that. Her family, particularly her parents. Knows she has four brothers. Knows the one she gets along with the most is Albert. Allen? Alfred? Something with Al.

Knows enough when he steps into her foyer he picks out the missing black armchair. Might be because he read the file. Might be because there's a reenactment that's been playing in his head like how enthusiasts reenact the Civil War. No pictures of farmscapes. Of wheels and tools and roads. Hardwood flows from shiny to a chemical dull.

Tapestry billows on the back wall. Off white sheet stained with age like the falcate left on a wooden table by the rim of a bottle of fine wine. Dalmatian speckled and dabbed with technicolors. Nothing extravagant. Nothing in the full body crimson reds of blushing lips or the ravishing pinks of provoked skin. Natural colors. Earthen colors. Grays, greens, browns, tans, taupes, a light yellow like the center of a daisy. But the blue punches. The blue overpowers in the handprints maybe because of the two definitive sets. Five fingers and a palm stamped down linking back to Jules. Then a much larger companion. The same blue from behind a certain ear. Blue and he knew. Then she was shot. Then Lew blew.

"Spike put it up." Still in the threshold of her foyer. Just past the cusp of her front door, but he's been staring at that sheet for two minutes in silence. It embodies so much of the past in accidents. Accidents like a sniper shot through a bulletproof vest. Or the click of a foot on a bunch of spikes. "I wanted to take the sledgehammer to the wall because it got bashed in. That's what I get for using drywall right? But if I used concrete I'd be dead right now."

A bunch of spikes, bullet just another spike. Spike? Spike. "You've seen Spike?"

Mechanical pupil narrows to a slit in a movement that might not even happen. Might be the lapse of her muscles in pain. "Yeah." Turns away from him, hair escaping from a stretched holder and slops over her back like garbage thrown from a second storey window. "Stopped by this morning. Left a couple of hours ago."

"How was he?"

Feigns sitting on the stairs. Hobbles slowly like an elderly person with a cane and leans into the curling spindle at the end of her banister. "He was fine. He seemed completely normal. I mean kind of upset but normal." Exhales heavily into the foot of her newel post, breath grays the rich brown. "Treated me normal. Which probably means he's tearing apart inside."

Exhales deeply again and the neck of her sweater shifts, tumbles softly like the bundled, excess of a blanket over her shoulder. Bruises oxidize against the air, the art deco colors of fancy restaurants. The colors of all her memories in paints on a sheet. A sheet hung in her front room to cover where her head smashed into the wall. Colors of photos he's seen in nightmares. Living nightmares in an office downtown where he threw up, then drove home and got drunk. Like on the sheets, not just in hues, but in shape. In perfect shape. Bigger and harsher than Sam's on the sheet.

"I know you didn't come here to see me, Sarge. I mean you came here, but it wasn't to check on me."

"Jules—"

"No. No." So dulcet in tone, a laugh chafing on the border of a wheeze. Polished corner of her mouth angles up, caught on some invisible lure while the remainder of her face is absolutely motionless. A stagnant lake on a searing summer day. Not a waft of air. Not a ripple of wind. Not a gasp of air. Just a rueful chuckle in realization. "No. Don't feel bad. Don't feel bad."

Hand flutters intoxicated. Path of intent seems to be her hair. Wisps of it drying wavy around her face. Streamers like at the retirement parties without shrimp cocktails. But the butterfly dies. Dust on its wings blows away because it becomes grounded, ironclad, one ton concrete shoes. Doesn't even wobble by her shoulder. Her hands never used to shake. Sniper steady with silent breathing and unvoiced thoughts. His shook last night, clinked ice cubes in melodic presence. Created a new instrument until he couldn't hear the beat anymore.

Scanner winks at him once, registers his non response and winks away. Another flutter. More of a buzz. An aggravation because that eye doesn't belong to her. It's not soft, inquiring and welcoming. It's harsh, jagged and inhuman. He wouldn't want to stare at it on any other person and definitely doesn't want to look at it on her.

"You guys." Fingertips waltz in absence along the vinyl sling. Don't play at the edges, aren't strong enough to pick or pluck or pry. Just land, flap their wings and rest for a moment before sensing danger and gasping off. "You guys have no real stake in me."

Plodding before front windows. Hands in his pocket. Casual slacks he hardly gets to wear because he's always at work. Now he's never at work. Always at the bar and can never drink. Always at the hospital but never for him. Always at the funeral home but never for him. Always at a retirement party but never for him. "You're our—"

"I mean, I'm not your daughter. I'm not Spike's sister. I'm not Sam's girlfriend. We don't have any real bonds. That's—that's not your fault either." Head tilts down so the tip of her chin smacks her chest. Caresses the worn lilac fabric on her sweater. The sun tickles over the upper half of her face. Redness melts away as her eye closes against warmth. But accentuates the growth on her right side. Plump black folds devouring her eye. Clumped and slumped, can't even tell where it is. Dangerous as the disruption swirls like a hurricane to her nose, and lips. Wants to jab her with an Epipen. See if that'll help. "But I know you. And I know you came here for something. To ask, maybe to tell me something and you can't do it. Maybe because I look like this and this happened to me and it makes you feel like that."

Doesn't say a thing, because the guilt, the guilt he thought he drown in scotch, is back. Worse. Needs scotch. Before he wanted it. Now he needs it. Needs it more than he needs to be here. Just needs the blame, concentrating like a screwdriver in his spine, to stop. Needs to leave this house because it's going to be hit. Rocky comets with fiery tails streaming down from the skies. "Sarge, I don't mean to be rude, but I really can't play polite hostess right now. As bad as you think I look, it feels a thousand times worse. So do what you came to do and leave so we can both be more comfortable."

"They got him Jules." Stares into her eye. Pool of red. Pool of blood. Pools of blood on her floor. Right there. Right in her front room. Right under that sheet where the back of her skull smashed into the wall. On the hardwood. Footprints in it. Shoes. Soles of shoes. Toes. Pads of feet. Knees. Elbows. Hands. Pajamas swirled around in it like cotton candy round a stick.

Stares into her eye because he knows he won't be seeing it for while. Will see it every second. Every single time he closes his eyes because he let her go. Watched her stand, reach into her purse for her wallet and he told her no. No. That he'd pay. Should've asked her what was wrong. Knew she wasn't right from Lew but none of them—no one would talk to him. They never talk to him. Didn't want to embarrass her in front of the guys so he let her go and—and—and—"They got him."


	9. The Feather and The Bowling Ball

_A/N: Hey Guys. Chapter 11 is being finished up at the moment. I'm trying to get up to 15 done but I think that's a dream. I restart school in September and it's probably going to be hard, which means all fanfiction stops. So, yeah. It really sucks because this thing probably had a good 50 chapters worth in it and there were some major things I wanted to do.  
>Thanks to those of you who reviewedalerted/favorited and of course read.  
><strong>As always if you have any questions, concerns or comments feel free to PM me.<strong>  
><em>

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 9

The Feather and The Bowling Ball

Valleys. Gorges running between wood planks in the bench for artistic purposes. For the modernity of it all. For the lack of materials. For the lack of cost. For utilitarian reasons. The negative space forces against her bruised skin. Bashes it. Kneads swollen and settling veins and tissue. The smooth edge cuts her skin. It hurts but she can't do anything about it because she's on display.

"Greg was sorry he couldn't pick you up today. Something came up at HQ." Ed converses through her. An invisible barrier between them from pantomiming sentiments. Speaks to her without respect, care, or responsibility. A stark neutrality which borders on a discomfort which imposes itself as irritation.

Came to the door to get her, didn't do much else. Let her traverse slippery stairs. Let her climb into the rig. Left her to buckle her own belt when she can barely stand. Can barely sit from the pressure building between her thighs. Didn't offer to fix her sling though it's twisted and tampered again, matted hair infused with the strings, restricts the rotation of her neck. "So you've said."

Nods, a half smile on his face as he tosses a lazy wave at another cop who steers to close to what might be mistaken for a conversation. "It'll be simple. You just have to say which one he is."

"I know." Was a cop at this exact time last week. Had to work cases years before. Had to tell women she considered unfortunate the exact same set of words. She's going to see the exact same set of four men and Scott.

The building emits a relaxing superiority on him. Uniform neat and natural. Shoes sleek and shiny. Team One is having their first shift back. Second time she's watched the Team flourish around her, without her. Feels like mascot on the sidelines while everyone else advances in the SRU race. They all took off at the first sound of the starting pistol. She immediately fell and twisted her ankle. Lew got hit with the bullet. "He can't see you either, so you don't have to be scared."

Mind unbalanced. A seesaw pounding, bouncing up and down. One side full of pain in tides swallowing up her insides. The other at irritation stewing in the pit of an empty stomach. "I kn—"

"Hey Hank, how's it going? How's Carol?" Throws another loose wave to a stumpy man with pigeon feet.

"Going good, Ed."

"Good to hear. Good to hear." Friend waddles by them in a sea of scurrying ants. Survives until the double doors and disappears into the groaning sky flashing fits. Ed scratches the back of his head, leans forward so his elbows on his thighs support his body. "So you been watching the playoffs at all?"

Mouth, three days ago unhinged and pillaged and ravaged, falls slack his sheer aloofness. Uncomfortable, so he blossoms in defense. Grows thorns without awareness. Was reprimanded before for treating her differently for being a woman. Now in a time where the situation, if any ever, should call for it, he's desensitized to it.

Not attending to her. Or the crowd of cops any longer. His eyes engage beyond her battered body. Beyond the small mountain protruding out of the side of her face like an ocean birthing an island. At an extravagant archway where men flow in and out with the ebb of the station. Everything has a timed rhythm. But it's not the arch. Or the men. It's the woman, leaning in from the side trying to be inconspicuous in nature with a coquettish finger waggle and obvious gesture in the thick, low lap of her pumped lips.

"I'll be right back," announces as he levitates from the bench beside her.

"What? Ed—" But he's already fallen into the unsound beat. Disappears down the hallway. Doesn't matter. Not disappointed by him. No ties. No direct ties. Loyalty is a strange thing to have on a team. During working hours, a team is a complete organism and if one person dies the whole team falters. Off duty it's every man for himself. So she's left stranded on a bench cramping her innards, stapling her neck to her shoulder, napalming her chest, and disintegrating her belief in society.

Cops pass her, most she doesn't know. All men. Most pretend not to notice her, the battered doll like the ones they give kids in court to show where they've been abused. Can you show the court where the bad man touched you Honey? Is the whole doll an answer? Is her heart an answer? Her mind? Her confidence in herself and everyone she ever knew. Why are they all treating her so differently? She didn't do—or did—if they—and that—would it?

Short fingernails clip against the soft material of her slacks. A rip in the nail catches and pulls at a thread. She sits on pain. A bed of nails, an iron unmaiden. Bed unmade. Sits on unwanted attention, which is how it began in her living room. In a bar. In a living room. A twelve-year-old behind a Barcalounger. Knees to her chest, eyes closed but throat raised to God in a whispered threnodic mantra that he was drunk enough not to find her.

The front door slammed and the empties clicked together, glassy laughs at her expense. Impatient fingertips across a tabletop as a loner beckoned her to come forward and accept his fist. Laughter in the school hallways. Fingers pointing. Thick throats undulating in laughter because apparently she was the clumsiest bitch ever. Apparently she wanted attention since her mom died. Apparently the Callaghan boys just roughhoused with her too much. Apparently she was weird and don't talk to her.

Hid anywhere when the solitude and safety were extinguished from the dilapidated farmhouse. In a tree overnight, ensconced in bumpy bark and long trunk like boughs. Woke up with frost on her bare legs. The same cross pattern decorated the maple leaves. Unhinged the back gate, crept on the dirt path around to the back door over jagged, rotted teeth of gray stairs. Screen door squealed, but she stood in silence in the serene yellow light of a country kitchen at five in the morning. Turned to shut the door behind her and when she turned back he was there. Big as a grizzly bear, just as carnal in rage, but for no reason. She didn't threaten. The house was a trap. She was a victim.

Was more successful in the fields, wheat stalks caressed lovingly. The slender, long fingers of a maternal figure near forgotten and buried among the rubble of childhood trauma. At the age of fourteen she didn't remember her voice. In rhyme or chide, just didn't remember her voice. But remembered her touch wasn't like any she was getting in the house.

The house that sat slanted and small like a shack from the distance she observed it. A wind blew, billowed the reeds before her face and tranquility swirled in her exhales. Stayed in the exact spot for a sunrise, florescent pinks to blues, until the next sunset when the sky bled red.

At the house, two split-paned windows leered out. Khaki colored rooms glowered in the dusk, flickered when bodies moved before the lights. The sky faded, diffused from purple to the pure black which embraced the rural communities. Galaxies measured in sugar cubes and the wilting of wheat stalks. Clusters of stars speared brilliance in protective streaks. One had to be her. Even if she couldn't remember her voice.

But there were voices. In stereo, raked over the field. Stilled the wind and silenced the chirruping crickets who serenaded to her laments. Peeked through the carious slits in the wheat. Created a mirrored effect until she saw the house again. The group of people standing around at the back porch with its carnivorous teeth.

Townspeople with flashlights. Akin to torches. Pitchforks and lassoes. Off to find her or her body. Return her. Her father sat in solidarity on the double swing. Someone pointed out to the field and an acidic bubble congealed in her stomach. She dropped flat to her chest, flat to the earth, dry and barren from the withdraw of rain.

Dust sucked up her nostrils while she crawled through the thin grooves between wheat. Elbows and knees propelled her forward as a cricket took offense at her movements, buzzed by her face grazing her nose. The farm rested next to a piece of unclaimed land, government property. Not a wildlife preserve, but undeveloped due to not being purchased. Thought she'd be free if she plunged from Callaghan land into government reserve. A juvenile thought, but it propelled her elbows and knees, torn, rashed, and bleeding from being gnawed on by the land. Land she felt so attune to a minute ago. Just like a house where she claimed sanctuary became a dungeon.

Pressure built from dirt caked under her nails. From not being able to wait another two years until she graduated to get out of the house. From needing to defend herself. From hoping someone would, and they just never did. Came home, saw her getting thrown down, kept their heads down, and kept walking upstairs.

The blue moonlight washed over the earth, powdered the barbed fence segregating land sections in a silvery paste. Was just a few yards. Just under a block away. She could make it. She was going to make it. She'd get out of the house. Out of the farm. Out of Medicine Hat. Out of Alberta and do something to make sure this never happened to her again.

Teeth embraced each other as she held in a shout. A joyous remark. Licked at her crusted lip tasting of smoke and tin, and mechanized her makeshift limbs to carry her to freedom.

The harking ethereal buzz of the fence disappeared suddenly. Illuminated fully in a daytime sunbeam which relinquished itself from a flashlight at the end of the row. Her eldest brother, Franklin stood body half built with muscles, half soldered in fat, and blocked out the entire entrance to the row. There was only one way to get out.

"I got her." Stock hand cupped to his invisible lips. Skin covered in grease and smeared with dirt.

Before his foot crunched into the parched earth, she bounced up from her stomach. Decided to fight back for once. Never did before because she witnessed what happened when she fought back. Hand-me-down sneakers kicked up dirt clods as she thrust herself at the barbed wire. Didn't care if it mangled her, masticated her, destroyed her. It was better than being here. Dying on this farm, in that house with that man.

Before she reached the fence. The two foot high separation leading her to freedom, Franklin tackled her. The kind of tackles he did in the football games which would give him a scholarship to the States. The kind that would take him away from this farm, that house and that man. The kind she was glad for, because she hated Franklin. Hated them all. Even when she liked them it was a façade. Oh you and Courtney had another baby? Fuck you.

Buried face down in the ground with an eighteen-year-old brother crushing her. Her wrist twisted and wrapped up in a bracelet of wire. When she steadied, he rolled off her. Felt the dirt patching over her front teeth. The blood seeping out of her tongue. The pebbles stuck into her gums like counterfeit teeth.

"The fuck you trying to do, Julie?" He dusted off the few licks of dirt bristled against his forearms. Then mimicked the actions with his legs, two thick slabs of muscle concentrated into a small area.

"Frank, let me go." Forehead rolled into the channel in the craggy ground created by the impact of her face.

"What?" Asked it with a laugh. Back of his hairy palm wiped at his forehead before he reached down to help her up.

Wrenched her body away from him. Kicked her legs against the ground to stand, but her hand was caught in the fence. Without forethought, she gave a yank, doesn't remember feeling a thing as the skin on her wrist ripped away like a corn husk.

"Julie, settle down." Fat, hot hand on the center of her back. Leaked his sweat through her shirt and she jerked away again. "Settle down."

"Just let me go." Fell back onto the heels tucked under her body. Tears cut like shards down her face. Cut clean streaks through the dirt on her face. That was the worst part. Everyone would know she cried and would assume it was from her wrist. "I don't want to be here."

He didn't say another word as he detangled her hand from the fence like a fawn's leg from a bear trap. Always the victim. So goddamn tired of being the victim. He recovered a once white, now gray rag from his pocket, and wrapped it around her wrist like a bandana. His expertise after all was causing injury, not assuaging it.

Her wrist needed twenty-three stitches. Created a scar that unlike most didn't fade. That like all of hers, bobbed to the surface like a Macintosh apple in an oak barrel and dared to picked at with bared teeth.

Franklin marched her back to the house like a correctional officer. Hand on her back, his sweat infusing her shirt as her blood permeated his gray cloth in some pseudo religious exercise. Lead her past the group of townspeople bored or nosy enough to come out to search for her. Maybe they just wanted to see her corpse.

Lead her up the back porch stairs, not even bothered to be covered with two by four planks of wood for the company. Foot and gaping sneaker fell through into hungry mouth waiting to suckle on, then gorge her body.

Lead her directly to her dad. A fat man sitting on the double swing. The paint chipping away with years of not being touched or repainted. Gray beard curling out to his midchest. Stopping just before his stomach exploded. Black eyes darted up at her from under wiry brows as he took a long drag from a cigarette. The end dissipated almost halfway down. Ember rotted under the pressure.

Ashed it at her feet, the gray flakes landed on the tops of the wrinkled and slashed fabric of her sneakers. Toes grew hot until she kicked away the mound. He blew the smoke through the crack in his front teeth at her. A funnel, a gift like making circles except it was a direct stream.

Set the wheezing cigarette on its side in a jam lid as an ashtray, then stiffly nodded to her. "Get inside."

And it's exactly how it is. The pain. Not physically. She can deal with physical pain. The balloon constantly filling and bursting within her body. The similar calendrical emptying that happens and then didn't happen for awhile but then happened and now won't stop. The mutation and mutilation of her face. Lumps of clay balling together, drying rough, thrown into a kiln uneven to add unneeded fragility.

Doesn't complain because she was conditioned not to. It's the pain she can't see. The second frailness of a warped mind. She's insane. Doesn't feel insane, but then again people who aren't fully sane never know they're not. Hasn't imbued the loss of mind upon herself. Gathered it through word of mouth like clusters of summer fresh berries from the people she once held dear.

She's unstable, mentally unbalanced because of what happened. Avoidant because of what happened. Feels detached from the public and men in general because of what happened and they should keep a respectful distance less the puddle of spaghetti her brain transformed into be batted around like worsted. Doesn't argue that all their experience in the field, under a gun, behind a gun, on a ledge, in a truck, off a bridge, on the couch doesn't account for shit.

Across the room, cops follow each other in succinct lines. Swerve around the flow of the immense desk she's forced to face. Ignore her in masses as their shined shoes click like black claws against the marbled floors. Someone, a dark blur among the bustling ants in the lobby colony, detaches from the trail. Grows bigger, blacker, carpenter, then queen in her vision.

"Jules?"

Recoils, body jumping like fireworks against the bench constructed out of solid wood. Constructed out of solid agony as her weight resettles and thighs inflame. Bruises boil like Technicolor water in a cauldron brought to purpose by malicious fingertips, calloused and untrimmed. By sharpened canines. Her skin became a birthday present.

"Sorry. Sorry." Voice skips around, as a body physically leans back, but dust spackled dress shoes don't shift from their spot. A hand lands gently on his own chest, flattens palm to collarbone in surrender. In a hopeful, gentle tone. "It's—it's just me."

In the blurred edge picture frame of her working eye, Spike's face comes into view. Eyes wide with concern, but his mouth relaxing into a gentle smile. One she's always know. One they shared together during times of duress, during the older crowds rowdy cheers at a hockey game, during a trunked conversation at Lew's funeral. The smile has never been contagious, but the emotions behind it are, like the lighting of incense, the dimming of lights.

"Are you okay? You're not in danger right?" Eyes stray from hers, dizzy around the lobby for an explanation at her presence. Checks his cheek to his shoulder to glance behind him, but there's no obvious answer.

"No." Head bows slanted and heavy to her lap. Arm wrapped up in a twined sling. Scar on her arm covered in a parfait of cotton and plaster, vomited up and left to dry a death mask. Thighs mutely crackling like the fated extinction of a forest fire. Trees charcoal javelins weaving wreathes of smoke. "No, nothing like that."

"Good." Doesn't hide his fear, his relief, the way the others do. If he ever felt awkward about what happened to her it's blended into the same brand of awkward he's always held. Treats her as he always has. No different, no better, no more attention, no pity. Sits beside her on the bench like they're waiting for a rig in the garage at HQ, like he'll nudge her and point to the banana sticker stuck in perfection between Lew's shoulder blades.

Points a stable finger at the blue abomination strangling her arm. Vining itself up around her shoulder like creeping garden ivy, tangling into her knotted hair. Almost pokes it, a casual nudge at the blue sticker that stayed on a uniform for three days. "Your sling is twisted again."

"I know." Head flops into her lap, neck crescent in pain like the curved spine of a boated fish. Water spilling from gills along with frothy blood. Blood staining her pajamas in caveman handprints found in deep seeded studies of the past that reveal nothing of the present. Present on her body, pulling back her already pulled back hair, stripping her of clothing the way sadists pluck petals from the center of flowers. Present inside her body. "It's hard to lift my arm up high enough."

His forefinger and thumb pinch at the crest of her shoulder where a matted knot of hair weaved its way against the sling. Patterned by an invisible spider, cheeky in nature. "When I was little, I accidentally burned myself when I was mixing chemicals."

Peers at him from a slit eye. A gill. No pain from his fingers on her clothes, inadvertently transferring heat to her skin. Doesn't infuse her loose dress shirt with his sweat. Not really a discomfort. So careful not to harm a hair on her head because the rest of her as been charbroiled. Plucks at her hair with skill. A harpist. "I had to wear a sling for a few weeks until it healed. My dad, he, um—he wouldn't let my mom help me put it on because it was my fault, right? That I got burned." The lock line releases her. Inhales as deep as ribs dictate. Neck straightens, but still only views him by peripheries. "So I learned how."

"I will too."

"No. No." Smiles with a twitch in his lips. Small flash of teeth like the flash of lightening glaring across the window behind them. He stands, but keeps his knees bent as his body angles forward. "I mean, I learned to do it this way. I thought maybe it might help."

"Some of my ribs are broken" Voice removes as vision buries among the naturalized cloud in the marble floors. Appears so soft, like cotton, but rebuffs the bottom of her shoe when she pushes down for assurance. "Maybe when they're better I'll try."

"Yeah. Sure. Okay." Oscillates his legs, gives birth to movement. Dress shoe soles squeak over buffered floor tops. They're just two kids sent indefinitely to the principal's office. "Don't take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here Jules?"

"Huh?" Examines stationary design in the floor. A paused screen on a television. The flicker and flap of bouncing riffs almost visible if she stares long enough. Separates enough from reality. What she really is from what she really was. Wonders if it was ever mobile like she was. But now they're both leashed. Pets who disobey their owners and are abandoned, tied to posts.

Squeak. Squawk. Shoes graze the surface. Sound like the wipers on Sam's SUV. Bullets graze the surface, but never for her. Always burrow straight through. Lay eggs. Nails graze the surface, had someone else's skin under hers. Had someone else's lips on her body. "Well, this seems like the last place you'd want to be."

Foot. Down. Gravity. There. Feather and bowling ball theory upheld. Something nudges her. Last nudge was a bump at the end of her driveway rousing her from Sam's front seat. Last nudge was inadvertent and woke her up while a hand strangled her thigh and—He nudges her shoulder again. Feather light. Not bowling ball bashing. "Huh? Oh. They got him."

"They got him?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Are you okay?" Hand cradles the back of his head as his eyes flutter around the room. Like any of the uniformed cops could be Scott incognito. "Are they holding him here? What—"

"I—I don't know."Foot. Ground. Slips. Squeak. Reset. Foot. Ground. Solid. Shakes out a stuttering breath. Embers grow in the pit of her pelvis. Smoke tickles her chest. Bones pulverized to dust. "I'm just here to identify him in a lineup."

"And they left you alone?"

"Ed picked me up." Shrugs off his gaze. Interrogating, Sam's mollycoddling after a paper cut or a stubbed toe. Doesn't know why it disturbs her. The notion that she can't care for herself. The notion that others think she's worth caring for. The second vanishes, slips through cracks like fresh rainwater lapping the window. "He was with me, but he met up with a friend."

Hands enfold between his knees. Pack away nicely. Clean up without a mess. The gauze to her chest. The sterile materials used to clean her front room. The removal of an entire chair. Where's her gray sweater? "I'll stay with you until he comes back."

"Spike, I'm in a police station, what's going to—"

"Doesn't matter."

"Aren't you supposed to be doing something?"

"I'm here to give evidence against—"

"Not—" Knows exactly who he's speaking of. The only fixation with a strong enough magnetic force to attract him to the station. "Spike. Go."

Lips are tight. Eyes won't observe her. An officer brings in a cuffed man into the lobby. Rookie must be new. Doing everything backwards. Barely has control of the subject, but then regains the upper hand and recuffs him to the artistic gold bar married to the front of the desk. "I'm not leaving you alone."

"And what about Lew?" Wants to cross her arms. Only employs the stress in her voice to portray disagreement. Not showing up for a court meeting. Letting a sympathetic judge side with a bawling young woman who knew exactly what she was doing when she helped assemble bombs.

They both want it to be over. He wants to end all ties with Lew's existence or the end of it. Was the only thing to drag him from his house besides her or drinking. She only left so they'd get Scott behind bars and maybe she could sleep. Maybe lie down and every noise wouldn't be amplified. Wouldn't relive every footstep of that night.

"Lew's dead. Me testifying isn't—"

"His mom isn't dead. His dad isn't." The funeral. The funeral she ran from because she couldn't handle the loss. The footsteps. The kitchen. The water bottle. The mail pile fixed to perfection. Not dialing 9-1-1. Not running. Why didn't she run? Didn't run and is running in her head. Can't breathe and is running in her head. Woke up on the floor and hasn't woken up since because she hasn't been to sleep. "Don't they deserve a chance at peace?"

"Don't you?"

Won't look at him. Can't. Because she doesn't. Had a chance. To stay at the bar. To call 9-1-1. To run. Didn't. Just didn't. Marble no longer comforts. The lazy cloud pattern not soft and volacious. Stains. Stains someone forgot to clean. Stains of blood on pajamas evidence and then burned. Blood on her floor wiped with sanitary cleaners which were then packaged and burned. Bruises in a fine syrup bathed on her body, bruises that don't fade like her scars. A paste sticking clothes to skin to hair. But her sweater—

"How about I go find Ed?" Pale blue shirt sleeve littered with rivers. The rendering of a map. Roads, streets, rivers, tributaries. All wrinkles in the fabric of his arm. Smile coaxes. Relaxes in the middle of a thunderstorm. In the middle of a police colony. In the middle of hell. "You won't be alone and I can still present the evidence."

"Yeah, sure." Acts out a weak grin. Frankenstein smile. The monster finally learning emotions. Doesn't need anyone to sit with her. Pain omnipresent like a vengeful God. Past unchangeable, written in script not sand. Finger slumps to curved archway created by wooden pillars. "He went that way."

"Okay. I'll be back in a few minutes."

His body darts around the corner. Unrhymed like the course of a fly. The mouth of the archway produces many specimen of the same officer. The exact same cop from the exact same colony with the exact same priorities of a wife and roughly two children, a house and a car payment. Lines of officers flood by like a black stream. Seamless and steady in motion like an army.

Behind her, lightning flashes like a camera. Like a box full of snapshots. Like a mind full of memories tainted by one night. Thunder gunshots and the lights in the building flicker out. One of the front bay windows cracks and crashes, a gust of wind snapping it. Creates monster jaws in the pane with gnarling teeth.

As if broadcast, the men rush to the window. Mutter in the same baritone manner resolute swears. Half remove their caps and scratch at bald, balding, or soon to be balding heads. Only company is the hunched man cuffed to the desk. The backup lights pop on, single bulbs encased in a wire mesh for security. Provide a jagged orange glow to the room, lit like a tomb.

Orange blankets over them. Over her shoulders, casts her blue sling a purple. Covers the hunched man's jacket, his jeans, his boots—his jeans. His jeans. His boots. His boots. Body seizes on the spot, breath stops. Thought she was reliving it before. Boots. Boots leaving dirt clods on her hardwood floors. Boots he left on. Jeans. The same jeans with a tear in the front pocket. Dark brown hair slicked down from the rain. Teeth bared as he struggles to free himself from the cuffs, jaw muscles skewing his wispy facial hair.

Scott stands less than ten feet away from her.

* * *

><p>"Jules?"<p>

Skin achromous in absolutes. Drains of all blood, all body, all being in a matter of seconds. Detection of humanity extinguished. Thumb and forefinger licked and snuffing out like the bitter wick of a storm candle. Not even gray, double barreled and splattered on the floor, with the sense of lingering life.

White. Whiteout. White over the pumpkin patch on the side of her face. White like beached fish carcasses during the summertime when girls paint their cheeks in unpalatable colors. Winked at him and Lew on the Lakeshore beat. Girls in bikinis, their skin shimmered glazen. Attractive at first, then grew almost comical. The same hue as the shards of broken beer bottles. Of home cooked 1950s meals served up with propaganda. Meatloaf, baked potato, candied carrots and anticommunist regimes.

"They're tanned, Man. Tanned is sexy."

"They're orange. Garfield is orange."

The white is an adaptation. Loss of color to blend into, or rather out of the situation. Hueless. Humorless. Body tight and tapered down in the spot. Eye hasn't winked or strayed from what it's staring at. So he follows the only color left in her body, the beacon of blood built up behind a single pupil.

The concentration point is a man hunched over about twelve feet away at the lobby desk. Thinks the guy's in trouble from the way he's standing, shoulder's forward, knees bent. Appears to be doubled over in pain, but then notices the cuffs around his wrists chaining him to the gold decorative bar running the front and lapsing at the sides.

And he knows. Just instantly know after one breath. Knows from the clothes. From his hair. From his skin. From his beard or whatever the hell that thing is called. From his work shoes. And he's huge. Taller than him. More muscular than anyone on the Team. Bites the inside of his mouth for wanting to help him a second ago.

Behind him, the material of her black dress pants shriek as she twists. Doesn't look at her. Not because he can't, but because—God he's a fucking bear, and Jules— spars with her. Knows she hits. Knows she hits him and knows she didn't stand a fucking chance because he just picked her up, threw her into the wall, punched her, he wants to throw up, threw her into the floor and—

Four tips touch his slack, hanging right hand. Doesn't jump though they're too cold to be viably human. A corpse on ice in the morgue—no, she's not. Closes his hand, encircles her fingers, four icicles cracked from the eavestrough and brought into the freezer to cherish until summer.

Understands. Understands like he understood her about Lew. The white wasn't a lame attempt at camouflage. It was the intense presence of fear, the physical presence of fear. The heartbeat collapsing in four fingertips. Might hold on tighter than her because the last time he turned and didn't give a second glance over his shoulder, a piece of his world exploded.

Is about to suggest they move to a different room. Go to the vending machines. He could use a Coke even though he's about to projectile vomit over the luxurious marbled floors. But before his head even creates a complete rotation, something twinkles. Senses tell the arid pit of his stomach to settle as his head recalibrates.

The guy has noticed them. The guy has noticed her. The guy has worked his cuffs over the infinitesimal amount of space between art deco golden bar and desk and left little pieces of woodchips on the floor. The guy is six feet away from them, if he had full use of his arms, he could lunge at her. But instead the guy is wearing a very disturbing grin, full cheeked but half-lidded and waving with undulating fingers at her.

Then her hand grips his tighter. Doesn't create a sound. Just crushes his hand in hers. Like she's drowning and doesn't want to be. Sinking, plummeting to one of those dark crevices scratched out in the core of the earth. But he can stop it.

She's stopped it before, for him. Without a second thought, she's stopped it. The only one who helped him as he wandered like a bedlam beggar down the abandoned hallways of the SRU, corneas violated by pepper spray. Saved his life once in a presumed to be abandoned warehouse during a citywide drug raid.

The team fractioned. A pie cut into seven pieces, then shoved into the maws of three different rigs. He and Jules were sanctioned a warehouse by the docks. The last known activity at the location was over two months ago. A small piece given to them because they were weak and adorable and don't climb to high on the monkey bars or you might fall off and hurt yourselves.

Sam made a stink. Sam was always making these big, gaseous, nauseating declarations about the safety of the team, particularly any team members who garnered a cherished double X in their chromosomes from the carnival midway water gun booth. It made her eyes roll to hide the mortified blush spreading across her cheeks like a rash before the plague. Like Sam was battling to protect her because wasn't good enough which was bullshit. She was better than most of them. That day only proved it more.

Warehouse was also a very poetic description of the decrepit building decomposing in the stomach acid of time. It wasn't very large, was more of a hangar. The outside brick had chipped away to mere mortar sealing cloned pieces of stone together. Teeth grated down to the roots. Two large square windows sat above a supposed boardwalk inside. The windows were bisected by panes cutting the glass into smaller portions.

"We just have to look for evidence." She repeated the instructions and released her rifle from the back of the rig. In his ear the greater portion of the team bickered back and forth no findings and disagreements. In the situation, their portion of delicious pie, she was the muscle and he was the brain. It was odd because neither of them liked being in that position.

"Jules, look at the place." Sure he had a gun too, but he could barely do shit with it. Could take it apart and put it back together if they gave him enough time. Could shoot targets under pressure, but never a person. Never has shot a person. She has. From rafters. From roofs. From trees. From the ground. Must do the angles and know. Just know. Once she got shot and he went in to help, but still didn't have the shot. Sam shot the guy. For more than one reason, Sam shot the guy. "We're not going to find anything here but rats, and maybe a junkie to question."

Pursed her lips in a pensive smile. Still does it. An idiosyncrasy she often blends to her face. A little bit of forethought, of anxiety, mixed with excitement. Glanced up at him from under fifteen layers of gear as he opened the door for her. Looked like a kid playing dress up. They were all just playing dress up. "One junkie's all we need."

The smell inside was unbearable. His nose immediately determined the foreign chemicals pinned to the drug ring. To meth they were producing. Sodden cardboard covered most of the floor. Sullied with footprints mazing their way through filtration tentacles.

"Guys, I think we found it." Mumbled and held back an armful of the gangly plastic. Let her stalk into the meth lab first with her gun drawn. Two parallel rows of chemistry tables greeted them. All beakers and Bunsen burners. Loops and swirls of tubing connected colonies of boiling liquid. Ten feet above them a catwalk outlined the building's periphery just under the ocular windows.

"We've got at least four separate stations for meth."

And it's the last thing he remembers. Thought someone shut off the lights and flicked him in the side of the forehead. His sister used to torture him like that when they were little. But it was daytime and what happened on his temple was much greater than a wound up finger flick from Vinnie.

Woke up down. He was ice on fire. A slow drifting glacier set ablaze by global warming. Forehead a dirty dish. Crusty and oily and disconnected from his body. Cracks and crevices filled with grime and disease. Temple tempoed with a railroad spike and a sledge hammer. Kept the steady beat of Lew's skipping records. A concentrated immolation. Above him ceiling fans spun. Slow, he saw every blade's rotation. Fast, spiraled on the base and threatened to shoot out the window like a flying saucer.

The window. Couldn't see the window anymore. Something eclipsed and smothered his face. Something underneath the fire. A soothing coolness ran in rivers. Unpolluted in clear lapping mountain droplets. A thousand rivers and a thousand rains on the side of his face. Placated his ears to flutter open, heard the thunderclouds of centuries in decimals and percentages.

But it wasn't thunder. Not metallic skies but the push and pull of popping tin. A can rolling semi-cylindrical in the empty winded streets. A howl. Not the howl of an animal, or a person or a thing. Just a rusted veined howl. Blinked like twins. Blinked conjoined again. Just pepper spray in his cornea. Just a smudge on his badge. Just needed to bounce back.

Vision shattered clear. Defogged in a single flick. Found two dancing, shining irises. They were in the shadow of her bowed head. Hidden by a curtain of bangs and serpentine ponytail. But glowed despite the darkness. "Thank God." Words curled from her mouth and stuck to his forehead like darts.

Head rested on her lap like a ring pressed into a luscious pillow at expensive weddings. Her flat palmed hand smacked against his temple. Easter egg dipped and dyed with Pentecostal patterns. Dots, dips, dashes, dives. Zebra brayed and set to rest on the windowsill for the neighbors to coo at. Arm flung around his head. Thought it was Vinnie beating the shit out of him—Mikey commercial's on, come here— But the arm cradled his head to her torso. Coat material crunched until his cheek hit the resistance of her vest. Flinched at the hurt, at the bottle rocket in his brain. Angular facial muscles and bones relaxed just as she released him.

"I thought you were dead, Spike." Pressure in his head, but it was her hand. Hand crushed something like a beer can to his temple. Grinned down, bottom lip jitter bugged to prohibition rules. Blinked three times in succession to eradicate tears. "I thought you were dead."

"No." Hands and arms felt pinned. Buried. Removed. Robotic. Tickled. Tumbled. Fumbled. "No I'm good. I just—" Blank. Memory was blank. They were strolling by meth sets like it was a spring day in the unfriendly, un-Roman woods and now—now they were somewhere else. "I fell?"

"You got shot."

"What?" Mechanical arm applied technical difficulties halfway up his chest. Every action, every breath, every thought, every thought of a thought and then aborted halfway, hurt his temple. Maybe it was more than an elderly trip and fall. Thin incarnadine fingers squirmed around his gloved hand. Directed his fat, clumsy fingers to the gorge in his head. Depression in hole in his head.

"You were grazed; it's at your temple, there's a lot of blood." Blinks raw. Eyes skewed shut like lids forced too tightly on jars. Will leak. Will break. Will rot. Predestined. Hinged down on his hand stapled to his head. Face freed of contortion. "You need to keep pressure on it, okay?"

"What's going on?"

"We're uh—" Scooped her rifle from off the stained concrete next to her like a favorite pet. "We're kind of trapped."

Would remain trapped for almost an hour. Slowly he became more mobile. A newborn calf, big brown eyes with thick lashes as he tried his wobbly knees and hoped not to become veal. Did fall over because Jules shoved him down. Splayed back on his stomach as a bullet pounded into the brick wall behind him.

The second bullet hit her in the back. It was okay, wasn't the trained sniper picking them off for a vendetta. These were druggies strung out on meth who probably saw melting apple walls while hearing the first inaugural address. If they just sat here long enough they might start jumping because they were covered in scorpions.

She rolled over; eyes squinted, not in pain. Enraged, she managed to shoot one. Fell from the raised walk like nameless minions in numerous action movies. By then he'd dragged himself in the far corner of their fortress, created by two storage containers and the hanger wall.

A certain rhythm instructed itself. She'd shoot, then duck when they shot. Talked to the Team through the comm. link while waiting as the hail of bullets along the outside of the container subsided. Then rinse and repeat. Twice more she took a bullet to the vest. Two finger flicks in sequence. Fired on at the same time from two different guns.

Didn't stop shooting from that, but because she ran out of ammo. Fell slack against the container. Breath heavy from a waning adrenaline rush as she glanced at him for suggestions. He had absolutely no idea what to do. Just lie down and go to sleep until the others showed up? Seemed like a great plan.

"Just shut up for a minute." Ripped at her ear like a bug flew into the drum. Threw the comm. link on the ground. Rotten piece of meat. Outdated piece of technology. Extended family a dinnertime pestering about personal attachments. Didn't hear static or frantic voices of the pop and sizzle of three guns punching into the side of the shipping crate they sat behind.

The atmosphere grew dangerous. The dealers obviously didn't want them leaving alive. Bullets bouncing everywhere could hit a gas line. Create a smaller big bang. Jules was out of ammo. Left his gun with his comm. link and a Rorschach test splatter of his own blood on the ground.

Her body angled against his, left arm pinned to her chest with her right. Adrenaline sapped the ability to fight back. From being trapped. From probable death. Caused her to notice the slugs embedded in her vest.

"You talk them." Kicked the comm. link towards him with her foot. A bullet barked off the corner of the crate across from them. Embedded into the wall just above her head. Pretended none of it bothered him. Just tugged her coat sleeve and shuffled more into the opposite corner.

Placed the link to his ear and the madness of being open fired on by three guns disappeared. Instead the insanity of Team One opened up. Voices overlapped. Remixed. All of Lew's records at once. Piled on top of each other in different dimensions and dialects. It was frantic and he couldn't understand a single word in the garbled static spewing from everyone's mouth.

Might have been the bullet. Piece of metal ripped out a receptor in his brain. Squinted his eyes and concentrated. Beside him Jules flinched as another bullet whizzed by the side of her face.

"Jules, come in."

"We enter from here. Use the windows—"

"Jules, I need an update."

"Sam, you're Sierra 2 there's no need for you to—"

"Are we going to try to—"

"Jules, we're outside. We need intel. If you—"

"They shouldn't have gone by themselves—"

"But when I said something—"

"When you said something—"

"Enough, I've lost contact with her for almost five—"

Back wall a secondary spine. Kept him straight because he slumped. Wanted to sleep, but Jules flinched beside him. Chest swallowed her knees. Didn't want to leave her alone. Saved him like she dragged Sarge. Didn't want to—too much noise. "Shut up for a second, Jesus."

"Spike?" Recognized Sarge and Ed who chimed in on different decibels. Imagined the construction of vast levels of eye coordination which he believed they used in the few seconds of silence that followed, because only Sarge continued, "Spike. Good to hear from you. What's—What's going on in there."

"You're too damn loud is what's going on. Three guys are shooting at us and you're—"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I got nicked in the head but—"

"Is Jules—"

"She's fine. She took a few in the vest. She's out of ammo and we're kind of in a tight spot so if we could save updates for—"

"Exactly, where are they Spike?"

"Three guys, all armed with rifles. All on the catwalk. You should be able to hit them from the windows."

Fuzzy again after that. Next thing he knew he was in the cab of an ambulance halfway down the dock. Could only see legs. Long legs covered in cool gray pants. Groaned and rubbed at his eyes and heard a familiar low chuckle.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

Off screen, Lew's massive hand clamped and shook his shoulder. Restored the vitality he lost being kenneled in a shoot out. Just bounced back. Gurney squealed beneath him. Bleached vision bubbled away, crystallized clear and could see into corners. Saw Lew's grin, the relief behind dodging eyes.

"What happened?"

"Ed and Sam took out two of the guys. Were pegging down the third when me and Wordy moved in to get you guys." Sat on the stoop of the bus. Legs easily hit ground. Palms pressed into etched metal flooring. Cleaned with the same type sanitizers as her living room. "Well the guy decides he's going to take us all out. Tries to shoot a gas line. Misses twice. Ed shoots him on the third and Jules dragged your sorry ass out."

"Is she—"

"Oh she's fine." Almost laughed again with a brisk nod. Across the tarmac, there was another ambulance parked and angled in opposition. Back doors opened, and Jules sat on the back stoop. Legs dangled, alternated between lolling and pumping. One head tilt to the left and she'd notice them. "Sarge is making her stay there for a few minutes until an EMS guy can check her out. I think he just wants to set her up."

Intended to slur a wise crack about Sarge at her wedding and bet Lew twenty bucks right there that he'd cry like a baby before the music even queued, but a man approached her from the right. Not EMS, made her smile. Made her legs find an even medium in their exercise. She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear and it immediately fell free while she gazed up at him.

He and Lew quieted as they watched the interaction. Didn't want to, but after it started, really couldn't look away. Sam spoke to her, without a gentle face. The conversation looked to be on the verge of a quarrel and to anyone else it might just be their normal exchange. She added something poignant. Something final. Went back to focusing on the twin pendulums her legs became.

Then he said something else. Something more poignant, less final and way more important. Her head jerked up and the twist of hair fell to her shoulder. In slow, precise actions, his fingers enveloped it. Slid down the length of it. Wound it like a ribbon through his fingers. Tucked it with care behind her ear, like he was wrapping a precious gift.

And he and Lew said nothing. Watched as Sam left without more conversation. Left with the same coarse brows he carried that were locked for arguing against any valid point. Like not sleeping with a teammate. Didn't say anything that time.

"Long time no—"

"Nope." Pounces. Pounces on the second word. The action causes him to drop her hand, but needs to be offensively defensive. Never played sports. Has no idea what the hell it means because the jocks just beat the shit out of him and left him on the field, and he never fought back. Wasn't a fighter because he had nothing to fight for. Now he does.

The guy laughs out of the side of his mouth. There's a small slit in his lip. Fresh. Four days fresh. She did some damage. Shoves him back by the shoulders, forces him to step backwards. But even in retreat the steps are stalking, intimidating.

"This the boyfriend, Jules?" Yells around him. Because, well he's taller. He's taller than ninety-nine percent of the fucking population. Gives another shove on his shoulders. Feels like he's pushing down on solid metal. On a solid counter or creation. "This Sam? The one you dumped me for? Or you done with that one already?"

"Do not talk to her."

"What are you gonna do?" Slides his tongue out over his front teeth, sucking air through the slit. An egging action because every single part of his body, he used to hurt her. "Hit me?"

Unconsciously, his right hand's already buckled into a fist. Fingers lined up and guarding the thumb. The caveman inside him ooking with absolute joviality and a raw degree of excitement at the chance to see freshly shed blood caused by him of all people. But over the flush tingling, the layer of sweat tracing his skin he still feels the lingering coolness of her fingers set in his fisted hand.

Pure selfishness usurps the Team. Five men caring nothing for anything but themselves. They do what they want to make themselves feel better despite her constant state of suffering. Hell, he's guilty of it too because if he's learned anything from his Ma it's not to be starting stone fights unless you're Jesus.

Chuckles. Must appear insane, but he chuckles at his fist and it disintegrates back into his normal, nonthreatening hand. "No." A shake of his head with a final chuckle. "I'm not Sam, which is unfortunate for you."

Elbow grinds into the top of the desk as he leans. Stance evoking a casual nature, but his voice is dark and threatening. Grumbles like the thunder currently in remission, but nowhere near done. "See Sam would've punched you already. Actually he probably would've killed you. Ripped your limbs off, beat you to death with them, torn your throat out with his teeth because of what you did. Would've killed you without a single forethought."

"But me, I know if I punch you it's assault because you're in cuffs and oh, I'm a cop too by the way. So it would lessen their case against you. No see my way, you go to prison, and while you're a whole bunch of other people will hurt you for me."

"If you think that I'm done with—"

"Nope." Hand clamps down on his shoulder. Muscles cultivated on a field of muscles. Hard as pearls. Like someone carved him in the image of a God, and then gave him the complex of one. "I'm done talking to you."

The butt of his palm becomes like the prong of an electric taser. Slaps it into the thick cut of meat in his shoulder until he's on the exact opposite side of the desk. The monumental piece of furniture buoys in the middle of the room, which brings them closer to a window where the rest of the cops have gathered.

"Whose subject is this?"

About a dozen guys perch by the window. After he speaks, two of them bother glancing over their shoulders. The others carry on trying to place magazines over a hole in the glass, looks like a scream bubble from a comic panel.

"Whose subject is this?" Projects his voice louder. Over the wind wailing through the peaks of glass. Over the gruff conversations of how paper won't do any good.

"I brought him in." A young kid with sandy blond hair moans with an eye roll. He's sitting on the arm of a chair. A woman sits in the seat. "What's the deal?"

Thumb bullets towards the guy, whose name he never wants to know, his shoulders propped to his ears as he breathes heavy and in mumbles. Might have pushed the cuffs all the way to the end of the bar where it dips down. Might have done it on purpose. "Do you realize you left your subject unsupervised?"

"No, I was right here." Points at the spot, purposely gesturing to his crotch. The woman giggles. Hand covering her mouth.

"You know what you brought him in for?"

"Yeah, he—uh—"

"He attacked someone."

"Didn't he ra—"

"While you were chatting up a prostitute, you put the attacker within ten feet of the woman he attacked." Fingers skip along the desk, abandoned at post by an officer who also wanted to heal the broken window. Easily finds a pad of paper and a pen. "Give me your badge number."

"Wha—why?"

"Now."

"1-6-0-9"

"I'm reporting you. You'll be lucky to see active duty again in the next year. Now watch your goddamn subject." Rookie nods dejected returns to the guy who grumbles some type of threat he can't make out. One of the older cops tells him to shut the hell up. Papier-mâché is much more of an interesting subject anyway.

A false sense of pride swoops over him. Annihilated the threat without the use of violence though his fist wanted to work that guy's face like a rock 'em sock 'em robot. Wanted vengeance, but it isn't about what he wants, it's about what she needs. She needs the security of this guy going away with a quick, legal trial. She needs her friends available to her, not rotting in a jail cell for killing that asshole while she roils in guilt.

But the bench is void. Like her skin was of color. Like his ironed and pressed shirt wasn't of wrinkles even after two rounds in the washer. Like the Team was of empathy when it came to her, and instead they were now burdened with the responsibility of caring for her.

Thunder groans outside sloshing rain against the two storey windows like gyrating noodles in a carwash tunnel. He rushes by the bench, in emptiness it's nothing. It's nothing without her. It means nothing to him and offers him nothing. Just an object in his vision taking up space in the police station lobby.

Cuts around the corner to the closest corridor. The large archway offers two directional choices. To his right there's a double set of stairs leading to the second storey where sometimes rooms act as proxies to statement gathering on bigger court cases. It's where he's supposed to be now. Bomb blew Lew. He's to testify about the complexity level of the bombs and how they were never meant to be benign. No bombs are meant to be benign.

But Lew, Lew's already gone. Anything he does for Lew now is beside the matter. It's not going to enrich his life. Is him testifying today going to bring Lew's parents anymore solace than if he testifies tomorrow? The next day? A week? He can't help Lew. But he can help Jules. Jules who's not upstairs, because of the miniscule tells of pain in her body from just sitting on a bench. Feet constantly in motion, in tiny arcs like the needle to a polygraph. Thumb on her left hand bouncing. Frequent and pasting blinks. Despite her tenacity, in her condition she hasn't made it upstairs.

Might be in the bathroom. There's a men's and a women's. The only other choice is an evergreen door, label less with a silver handle. Mentally debates against going in. For. Against. For. Against. It's exactly like a banquet. A retirement party where she became the victim of an airborne shrimp and his hand had to go into private territory. Just knock on the door and explain. Knock on the door and call for her. Knock and the door and—

But as he veers left, there won't be a need for bathroom heroics. Because a sneakered foot bouncing in lying arches sticks out from between the jolly red bulge of the Coke machine and the solid black square of a generic vending machine. Grins despite her, himself, the situation, the world because he's never seen her do something like this, something so childish. Grins because she's safe.

"Jules?" Foot freezes and retracts on an instant as he creeps closer. Steps lightly across the floors, shoes tapping but not loud. Doesn't want to scare. Doesn't want to encroach. "It's me still."

Her body jumbles into the small space between the machines intended for the garbage can. Her left arm ensconces the can tightly to her body, stretches her loose shirt material. The heels of her sneakers fit snug against the backs of her thighs. Must be uncomfortable, all the weight resting on her torso, her ribs, her arm, but he can't tell because the operational part of her face is hidden in her shoulder.

Wants to tell her something supportive. That he's there. Will just sit there on the ground until she wants to unhinge herself from the side of the machine? It doesn't sound like much, there has to be something more he can offer, but can't reach out to her if—

"I couldn't do it."

Has been in these types of situations before. Only twice and not really involved. Truck involved. Intel involved. Thought she might reply with a shaky sob. Would fully respect the idea of tears. Tears are usually what they saw.

Jules, she doesn't cry. Holds the bulbous can to the front of her body, eye in a trance finding the fractals in the black plastic siding on the vending machine. Voice is dull, almost indifferent. If anything holds a sense of disappointment in herself. "I saw him. And I thought I'd be able to handle it and I couldn't. I remembered everything. Because I remember everything about it. Every single thing about it, Spike."

"No one's going to judge you." And he's the one shaking. He's the one who's trying to keep his voice level because he's going to fucking lose it. He's Spike, the nonviolent comical nerd they keep chained up in the back of the truck because he's too much of a fuck up to do anything in the actual field. Too much of a 'softie' as Ed put it to actually put a bullet in someone. Right now he could shoot a lot of people. A lot of them he knows.

"Yeah." Body crumples more around the can. Disappears in camouflage again. The iridescence of her skin not viable in the niche she created for herself. "Yeah, they will."

"I'm not. No one will say a word if you want to go home or—"

"I don't." Side of her foot slams into the mechanically emptied metal stomach of the vending machine. The sound is thunderous, drowns out the torrents of rain and true storms God's wishing to cleanse the earth with. Boxes his voice, tapes the cardboard sides down and mails it to some exotic destination.

All limbs, broken and bangled limbs. Limbs that don't add up properly. Limbs that are so strong but not strong enough. Limbs, the baseline to her greatest paradox. "I just want to sit here for a bit. Just sit here and be here, just for a little bit."

"Yeah." Nods, drawbridge arches of his feet finally collapsing. Rolls back a quick occurrence in slow motion. The hard marble floor shooting up at his ass as he falls flat on it. The pregnant belly of the Coke machine cutting her from his view. The swift, soft relief of a cool stream flowing through his legs as stiff muscles relax. "Sure. Okay."

Foot thumps in fatigue against the metal basin. Only sees the worn soles of her shoes, where the treads have been stepped on so much, so often, so hard, they're fading from the sides, slipping into a current and carried into the middle. A little layer of taupe colored dust speckles the bottom of them. "Do you want me to go? I can come back af—"

"No. No." Leg flexes all the way forward. Sole of her shoe flat on the ground by his hand. Substitute for a hand, her only working hand tucked away by her face hidden by a can. Limbs all messed up, mixing signals. The declining of a date which lead to a front room rape. "Stay. Please?"

"Yeah, of course." Doesn't want to spend the next lapse of time talking to the neon red plastic of a pop machine. Wants to talk to her, face-to-face or side to side. For her because she needs to know she is still the same person despite what happened at her house four days ago or in the lobby ten minutes ago. For him because she's still the same person and she'd do the same thing for him. "Just a sec."

Bones crack, bursts of air trapped in aging joints. Pop. Sizz. Stands using his knees and feels the pressure build behind them. Not being on the active force for two weeks after six days a week for the last three years dismantled the basic plumbing route in his body. No workouts, no exercise, binge drinking and bar food, emotional turmoil and that fucking therapist. Screws are popping left and right.

But he grabs the Coke machine in a bear hug. Arms pinching around its aerodynamic design while his teeth clench in his mouth. Feels its toes skid across the ground as he slides it away from the wall, from beside her and the cavern she created.

"Spike, what are you doing?"

Doesn't answer as it maneuvers a full machine length away. The ground where it stood covered in a brown coat of syrupy dust and abandoned bottle lids. Without a pinched nerve or a slipped disk he backs up against the wall next to her. His dress pants land in years of accumulated stickiness. Runoff from the machine. "Oh yeah, that's the stuff."

When he turns towards her, she doesn't answer him. She doesn't smile, or laugh, or roll her eyes, or call him an idiot. But her face retracts from the corner, expression completely neutral in composition.

The machines purr enchanting and enamoring. Understands why she hid here. It's dark, tall, safe, warm, and the humming elicits sense of home. His mom at the stove with eight pots at boiling point. Understands why she hid here because it's probably a latent childhood action she developed while living on a farm in Medicine Hat where he hopes everything was okay but knows it wasn't.

"What do you think Lew would've been like?" Neutral simmers to pre-positive. Nostalgia, in the wistful prolonging of words. In the half lapse of her eye. In the relaxation of strained and bungled muscles as the can totters away from her chest and onto its bottom.

"Like as an old man?" Exhales in a tuneless whistle through circled lips. Hands cup behind his head, leaning against toffee teared walls. "The same with less hair and more wrinkles, I guess."

And she laughs. Laughs twice. A repeated action, so it's not an accident. It sounds like a cough, but there's a grin on her lips. And she laughed. She laughed. She laughed at something he said. He made her laugh. He wants to take a picture and put it in a scrap book and suddenly he understands why her fridge is a collaboration of the Team. Understands why she gave him a shoebox full of photographs in Lew's demise.

"I mean how do you think Lew would have reacted?"

Doesn't need her to clarify if she's referring to Lew reacting to his own death, or to her—well it's obvious. Catches a whiff of that batch of nostalgia hot from the oven. The burning behind his eyes, the tightness in his chest. "Lew would've been the best. He would've been there for you ever single minute. And when you finally sent him home, he would've acted like it was no big deal. And then he would've waited by the phone until you needed him again."

"If—" Pause deliberate. Glancing ahead, single tremor runs in her limp lower lip. Contemplates something. Eye narrowing in wisdom, in a debate he can't even imagine. "If I asked you a question." Head angles up, eye meeting his. The illusion of being clear. No emotion in an entirely emotional situation. But the complete opposite is true. Behind her eyes she's tied down by the reins, by the act, by the repercussions. Trying to outrun something she's on the leash of. "Would you answer honestly?"

"Of course."

"I mean it." Body unwrapping from the stable post she created against the machine. Her back curls away from the wall. Good palm on the floor, white and red with the pressure of supporting a rebooting body. "An honest answer. Don't think that because of what happened—"

"Jules." Smiles at her. Small and reassuring. Wishes he could offer her something concrete. All he can do is watch the battle within her eye. Answer questions the best he can about hypothetical situations. It's not going to be enough. Nothing is. "I can only answer the question if you want to ask it."

"Do the guys think—"

Sits straight. Hands falling from draping over his knees. Eyes center on her face and don't move. If there was an earthquake, they won't move. If that stupid rookie cop came back he'd grab the loose gun from his holster and shoot him without taking his eyes from hers. "No."

"You don't even know what—"

"Yes I do." His voice is calm. Too calm. Eerily calm. The kind of calm that sociopaths use before they unleash pent up violence. Blinks. Finally blinks. Somebody put these ideas in her head. Something's been tampering with her. "You asked me before."

"Why are you angry?" Furious inside without showing it to the same effect, she's struggling. Has to feel like this, like she provoked this, like she's alone in this. What would Lew have done? He would've cried. He would've done everything he said, and then he would've gone home and cried like a fucking baby, because that's what he did.

"I'm not—I'm not angry at you." Hand shields his face. The headache roaming behind his eyes. Chewing on nerve ends and slumbering in sinuses. Doesn't remember the last time he slept. It was definitely before Lew. Maybe sometime in Ocho Rios. On the ocean. In the waterfall. Face down in the sand because he travels like shit. "Something made you feel this way. You shouldn't. You didn't do anything wrong."

"How am I supposed to feel?" Shrugs, it's nonchalant but the wall she's created behind her eyes is crumbling. Tears are welling. There's another shudder in her lower lip and he wonders if she can even feel it. If her lip has that function anymore. If she can feel it over the pain in the rest of her face, the rest of her body. Head drops to her lap as the first tear drops down. "Everyone treats me differently, Spike."

Touches her shoulder before he realizes what he's doing. But she doesn't flinch. Doesn't react in any way indicating the trauma she endured. Just lifts her head slowly. A tear trekking over the curve of her cheek. They only bloom from her left eye. Right closed up and under construction. "What do you mean?"

"They don't want anything to do with me. Wordy hasn't said a single word to me. Ed treated me—well he left. Sarge. Sarge won't even look at me. Oh God, and Sam is the exact opposite. He thinks I can't take care of myself now. Like I had a chance and failed. I told him to go away, but—but —but—"

"Jules—"

"No." Lips try to purse together, but bottom one is stuck in concrete. Sleeps with the fishes. Shakes her head and a new tear falls free. "No. I can't—" But she's already calming down. Chest punches regulate to sighs before him. Dirt dyed nose sniffling on repeat. Holds her good arm up. Over. Awkward angled like a bird's wing, bent back in a dead repose.

Phantoms the action of embracing her. The space is too small for his arms to reach towards her. But she mellows in the crook of his elbow. Head facing away from the hallway, towards the Coke slobbered wall tiles. "I can't tell you what the other guys are thinking, all I can tell you is we all handle things differently."

That's when a young woman exits the men's washroom. Clawed fingertips ripping at the bottom of her blue jean skirt, stretching it over scarlet, plump thighs. The bottom of her tight leopard halter top follows. She then runs a taloned thumbnail around the periphery of her round lips. Dark circled eyes dart down each side of the hallway before she clomps away in her heels.

A minute passes and the door to the washroom swings open again. Ed stretches in the doorway before reaching down and zipping up his fly. Doesn't bother scanning either direction before returning to the lobby.

"Some people better than others."


	10. The Human Shield

_A/N: Hey Guys, this is my favorite chapter out of my favorite story so please treat it kindly. It was my opus that I worked towards from the beginning. Instead of inserting more big words I'll just leave this here.  
>There may be a little pronoun confusion when it comes to the flashback in Spike's part. This was done on purpose.<br>The nest chapter is the last one I have semi completed. There's a reunion in it of some sorts.  
>Thanks to everyone who reviews, alerted, favorited and of course read. There's a lot of you guys out there and I thank you for the time you devoted to reading.<br>_

Just-World Fallacy

Chapter 10

The Human Shield

Rain submerses the idle windshield. Bangs hard enough to create a layer of mist from jumping drops. Runoff, constant in the fall deluge, a riverboat paddle wheel. Concrete sidewalks sunken beneath inches of water; adopt the brass hues of the autumn ambiance. Earthworms upheaved from loamy homes squirm and swell. Finally plummet with the current into the slit of a sewer grate.

Center console mocks him. A harlequin's face. Offers one thing for him to view. A single coffee. Cream no sugar, transformed from newborn to three days old. Hasn't made contact with it since she severed contact with him. Observes it from his seat, hands blanketing his thighs, distinguishing the copper stains on the black lid. The same stains he removed from her lower lip because no one else did. The same stains which run in solitaries and in packs down her back like wild animals. Crimson droplets swerving and crusting her skin. Home on the range where the skies are all blue, black and gray.

Called her, more than a few times but less than a hundred. Border obsessive the way he called. But she wouldn't answer and it left the morbid image of her mangled body on the floor of her front room a bitter aftertaste in his mind. Her front room. She knew it happened there, but she invited him to her house. Captivated him inside all the same. The solvents, the bases of whatever they'd used to scrub her place clean of any blood and spit and—it assaulted his nostrils. Singed the hairs.

Couldn't breathe in the house he shared with her for almost seven months. The house he'd put off buying an apartment for, because he always assumed he'd just move in. They were that compatible. She's that perfect. But he can't be there after it. Can't stomach her being there after it. Wants to help, would do anything in the world to help her in any measure. Anything she requested he would do. And the one thing she asked of him was to go away so the house could swallow her whole. Didn't break his heart. The pieces are so small; can't be fractured any more, like crumbles of dried bread. Dissolved his heart like burning acid. Like whatever they threw on her floor.

Cataract is continuous. Fifteen minutes has drunkenly stumbled by while waiting for a break in the clouds, but the sky is the same spilled gray it's been for the past four days. The same at dawn, day, dusk and night. No sun, no moon, no stars. No guidance because inherently, everyone is on their own.

Coffee cup grins at him. Malignant and malice, the kind of grins clowns always wear categorizing them as a fraction less human. Tugs the handle and the details on the inside of his door immediately submerge while open to the police station parking lot. Slams the door shut, stuffing his keys into his side pocket with his wallet. Chances a check through the window and notices the coffee cup spit up.

Water flicks at his skull. Wets his hair, and tickles as beads roll down his head. Weather tumbling lazily into winter, enforces a strict cold prickle in the cloudburst. His jacket collar up, ducking his face to no avail as his shoes splash through plowed asphalt full of caves overflowing with precipitation.

The minute run from his car to the station doors leaves him slobbered. Toes flex in shoes and find squishy soles under rough, unmalleable cotton. The gyrating fan above throws drafts of freezing air at the cold layer of water permeating his body, flesh cultivates bumps as he represses a full bodied shiver. The puddle encircling his feet feeds from his body, nourished by the water running from his skin, clothes and hair. Conquers the passive smoked pattern captured in marble floors. Scrubs a hand through his hair relieving his scalp of the lingering stimulation. Heavy enough, cold enough to feel like five familiar fingertips brushing through. Fingertips he knows better than his own. The taste of each individual pad, how the delicacy varies from pinkie to thumb.

And he stops. All movement about him ceases, leaving only the natural flow of the water dripping off him. He senses her. Can't put the feeling into a proper description. Like the fistful of marbles from his bedroom floor he swallowed earlier have alchemized to bubbles. The clacking in his viscera ceases, the rainwater bleeding through his jacket to his shirt is no longer an annoyance, but now sustenance. Even the clouds outside purr, rather than growl in their disposition.

Picks her out of the crowded room. Of officers frenzying like sharks in crimson water, frantically smashing into each other, grumble and straighten their route. Gentle glow bathes over her body. Cascades over ravaged skin, the softness of which he can still feel under his fingertips, against his cheek, lapping on the tips of his lips. Hollow pitted mind wonders why she's at the station. Shallower channel chimes in paranoia, prays she's okay. Nothing more has happened. Can't stop watching her. Because it's been three days since he almost lost her. Different times. Darker times. Wouldn't be perched on a bench back swerving, aching to be straight, but trapped by hair woven into her sling.

Since he moved to Toronto he's seen her almost every day. At work, at her house, in the hospital. Purposefully removed himself from her only twice. Broke his heart, love oozed out, turned violet and sour. A lapse was the only logical choice. Lew's death resulted in removal because she pleaded with him and his arrogance made him deny her. Couldn't face her after that. Couldn't face his own reflection after that. Three days. Three days after what happened. As much as he yearned to touch her, hold her, to be able to love her, he'd settle for simply being able to see her. Otherwise he'd be staring at a picture where his lips are frozen on her cheek. Trying to remember the softness of her skin, the refreshing coolness of her body, her intoxicating aroma and taste. Staring at a gray slab with her name carved into it knowing everything more he could have done. Knowing he wouldn't be far behind.

Face is almost bland. Almost devoid of anything he could say he knew about her. But he knows her. Knows her too well, better than anyone and he'll defend that point. Discerns what he can from a distance. The slight down curve to the functioning corner of her lips. The half lidded eye where he knows a scarlet iris slumbers. The way the muscles around her eye are tight, fabricating deep furrows of aggrieved lines. Knows she's in pain and hiding it from that one camouflage. A throw pillow. An ivory body painted in makeups and buried in a back closet dress. I didn't die, Sam. I didn't die.

In a room full of cops, in a room full of men, she's isolated. Swept to the side as dust from the cupboard, as garbage from the lane and forced to wait trembling, painfully, anxiously. Sears him. Hears the sizzle of water as it simmers away from his scorching skin. No one could bother to come with her? Did she even tell anyone? Does she even think she's worth it? He knows she is. Is willing to risk everything he has and is on it and it's no risk at all because it's always the right choice. Wonders what the hell kind of family made her like this? Did she even tell them? Would they even care?

Has absolutely nothing left to lose. Two tickets on his car. An eventual date to appear in court for punching a guy. He wasn't even a man. Sure he was a doctor, but men, real men don't think along the same channels he did. Would repeat the actions again and again if it meant teaching that asshole some compassion, some sympathy, some respect. Might wait until he had Jules safe.

Save Jules. That's what it was all about, but it was too late. What they all thought. Not outward. No direct declarations like his absent three word dessert. But the Team, to them she was already written off. Like strays euthanized for the betterment of society. Not to him. Not inward, outward, forward or backward. She's Jules. His Jules in any form, all forms, forever forms and he'll never renounce her even after she's renounced herself.

Homebrewed nerves disappear. She sits so still, so perfect, so ignored by everyone and everything around her. Has to approach her. Offer her some semblance of friendship, of reliability even if those are the abstract concepts of bones buried in nostalgia. In memories. In painting toenails, in unclasping lingerie, in watching her curl her hair or trace her lips with gloss, in praying a broken body will heal properly because he can't lose her. He can't.

Cared for her once, in a physical sense. Helped with the hole drilled straight through. His reward was a crop of days with her, plentiful as the fields of wheat she mentions in riddles or inside jokes with herself. Caring cultivated his fear, the fear; she would suddenly be ripped from him. His idea of her in good health clashed in heroic violence with hers and birthed boiling resentment until they finally exploded.

Slammed the door behind him. Hard. Really hard. Heard a crack and thought the heavy wood split, but didn't care. Maybe if it was the outer one. The one with the checkerboard glass. Eighteen squares, six by three. When they opened up the inner door and sat on the couch, him closest to the stairs they rebuilt one weekend and her thrown over the opposite arm like a ratty blanket devoid of bones or muscles, sometimes the sunset smashed the glass. Sometimes it made prisms of colors shoot across her hardwood floor like a fairground. Lights on a Ferris wheel. Colors at a parade where he eternally holds her. Refractions of sirens in puddles while ballet flats burned.

Stomped down her front porch steps. Crippled, they cackled at him with broken splinters and crooked teeth. Were haloed in the halogen porch light. Warm and smoky in the late May night. The sweet smell of freshly cut grass wafted on a gentle, humid wind. Her lawn rivaled the foliage on Amazon boat tours. Grass spiraled halfway up his shin. The shrubs no longer had any identifiable shape. Plants wilted from the overgrowth of weeds.

It was late, a little after one. He ended up taking her Jeep. Wasn't really stealing at that point. Was already adjusted to his legs because hers hadn't been behind the driver's seat in eight weeks. Took it because he was so used to picking up groceries, or prescriptions, or medical supplies, or anything he could think of to make her old Jules, his Jules. To stick something on her or in her and she would just wake up the next day fully repaired. Jesus, it felt like she was dying. She was only getting better. Had to be.

Signed her out AMA. Scrawled his signature onto the bottom of the pages with a slippery pen in sweat soaked palms as the doctor watched under a scornful brow. She begged him. Held his hand and pleaded with him to just take her home. How could he tell her no? How could he stare into her beautiful and exhausted eyes, so full of pain she was poorly hiding, and refuse her?

Drove around the neighborhood. Contemplated going back to the hotel, the hotel he hadn't seen in over two months. Slept at her house. Slept in a hospital. Anything to wake up and be able to see her face within seconds. Packed his bags and became her live in helper. Her live in boyfriend. This caused all the trouble. She didn't want either. Wanted to be completely independent. Sure he was good for company and affection. Good for reinforcement on an idea and someone to have dinner plans with. Was even good for a fuck now and then but she wanted seclusion. It was the thing which apparently allowed their relationship its growth. Her knowing even though he was over at her house every single fucking night, that he still didn't live there.

The thing was, a bullet near the size of a pen tore through her. Ripped her apart from meters away. Rearranged the way her back connected because of pained nerves and broken ribs. There's a hole straight through her. He's seen it. Every day he saw it. Sure it was stitched up complacent like a rag doll's mouth, but more than once a day he saw the twin sides of her wound. The head and tails of her injury. Imagined it originally resembled a used paper towel roll. The kind kids use as imaginary telescopes.

Idled at a stop sign for a few minutes. It was a nice night. Moderately clear, swells of light gray clouds whisked through the sky like patchwork. Stars looked like specks of salt on a black countertop. The streets were noiseless, except for a clicking under the hood of Jules' Jeep. If people were still awake, they were downtown. They were with family and friends.

His family doesn't want him and his friends alienated him because he signed his girlfriend out of the ICU at her raspy plea. His friends alienated him by replacing her within two weeks. Expecting him not to notice. Sure, he'd rather have Jules in a job where she can't get injured, but if she wanted back on the Team he'd support her. He was her boyfriend. It was his job. His blind and faithful job because her back couldn't support her anymore.

Realized in their altercation she inadvertently received exactly what she wanted. To be left alone. A dangerous alone. Alone in a two storey death dome because she couldn't really climb stairs. That particular day she had trouble walking. All he wanted to do was help. Help her with the weight she carried with her body. The weight burdened on a torso dyed violet and red like her backyard at sunset.

Sat with her on the patio, brought her a blanket for her shaking body. Not shaking from the temperature. Just wanted to hold her. Sit and hold her and not let her go because he saw her die. He felt the life flow from her like sap from cut garden roses. Saw them stake a tube down her throat because her lungs stopped. He stopped. Everything just stopped.

Was back at her house. It was almost two hours later. Just drove around wasting gas for two hours. He couldn't leave. He could never leave. Not after what she gave him. Love. Acceptance in toothbrush form. A superior smile as she playfully punched his cheek with the pad of her foot while they lounged on the couch together. The greatest relief when he glanced over the ridges of his partnered knuckles, her hand captured within his, and saw her barely open eyes trying to focus on him passed the tube stuck in her mouth. He laughed with joy. Laughed for days. Still gets chuckles.

June bugs buzzed around the active porch light. Glowed like a wasteland. Through the lace curtains he could see a weak illumination from the front room. Tried his key in the brass lock and the front door thumped open. Didn't crack or creak. The strong wood didn't split. There were no shavings. No debris. No splinters scattered on the floor. There was no chain across it. Everything was exactly as it was when he left.

Except Jules was on the stairs. She wasn't standing. Not really sitting. The way she angled her body since the bullet could only be described in marionette actions. The invisible fish wire snipped away from her limbs to leave her in a crumbled heap wherever she landed. Wherever happened to be the stairs. The stairs they rebuilt together.

They had to go back to his hotel room because there was no way of getting up to the bedroom when they only finished four stairs on the first day. She almost froze to death. Initially he thought it was overdramatic theatrics but then he felt her body and Jesus, she almost froze to death. Gave her a pair knit gray and blue socks. Gave her his sweater. Gave her an open mouth kiss with tongue and wrapped her in the comforter.

She was sort of thrown against the railing. Left arm hooked around her torso because she couldn't move it very much. Right snaked through the spindles and up the thick oak banister. Hand flat and open like on the snout of a horse. When he left she was on the couch imitating the position of a throw pillow.

Shut the door to the buzzing insect carnival. Turned out the light and engaged all three locks before either of them said a word. He didn't really know how to start. She basically kicked him out when all he did was care. Two straight weeks of caring and that wasn't the difficult part. It was that she fought him every step of the way. She needed to eat and wouldn't. Needed to sleep and wouldn't. Needed to take her medication and wouldn't. Needed help with almost everything and wouldn't accept it.

But she was there. She wasn't sitting in the sunset in the backyard. Buried beneath layers of knitted blankets with her body still convulsing. She wasn't buried beneath austere and metallic pipes or wires in a hospital with a ski slope for a heartbeat while he crushed her hand. She wasn't buried six feet beneath him in a beautiful dress he'd never seen her wear before stolen from the back of her closet with a hole through her body and insects feasting on her skin.

She was there on the stairs in sweats and a t-shirt. Her skin was almost gray and her arm shook violently against the railing. One foot vibrated on the floor while the other tucked up beneath her.

He knelt before her. Wanted to place a hand on her knee, on her shin, her thigh, her hip, but he was afraid it would be like a sledgehammer to an ice sculpture. Was so close to her and so afraid to do anything. Like before he kissed her. Being cooped up in a rig with her. Doing double drops with her in drills. The one and only time they sparred together in the workout room because it turned sexual and violent quick.

"I'm sorry about—"

"I tried to make it upstairs." Speech in exhalation. Was exhausted from sitting. From crossing a room. From not toppling over. "I can't—"

Touched her then. Her knees because her head fell. Really fell, her forehead almost hit her thigh. At his touch her neck craned up as much as it could. Head plopped lifelessly against the arm sewn into the banister. "You need to let me help you."

Her eyes were half closed. Half full of tears mirrored in the living room light. Globed her dull brown irises. "You already treat me differently."

"What?" Rested back on the heels of his feet because the muscles in his shins started to scream. A natural response which flooded him with relief and guilt. There was no instant relief from her pain. Just the pills she only took at night. Pills she was late for. "I don't."

"You treat me like I can't do anything. Like I'm broken. You don't treat me like you used to. You're not happy. You never smile. You never touch me. It's like I died, Sam." She shoved her face into the crook of her arm created by her elbow so he couldn't see her cry. "I didn't die."

His heart broke for the second time at that moment. The first time was when the bullet hit her. The third was when she took him to a café for a certain conversation. The fourth was when he found out what happened to her. The fifth, sixth, and seventh were each time he saw her afterwards.

The emptiness in his chest. The feeling like he'd fallen off a high swing set. Off the roof of the playhouse in the backyard and had the air knocked out of him. Destroyed his breath. Fractured his mind. Ate his words. But he had his actions. Had the love he couldn't speak of because he was so fucking terrified. So terrified as soon as he acknowledged it, something would happen. His one arm slid softly under the depressions of her knees, the other curled around her back.

When he lifted her, her arm slumped from the rail. Cutting ivy from the side of her house when it strayed too far from the lattice. She didn't make a sound as she transitioned to his body. Was light. Too light. Lighter than he remembered on the odd times when he used to literally sweep her off her feet. When she'd let out a squeak and rotate all of her limbs to smack him. Times when she was adorned in only one of his loosely button dress shirts and a pair of panties. The softness of her hair licked against his hand as he cradled her. Just got up for a cup of water and ended up in a turbid hallway make out session. Pictures crashed from the walls and her feet no longer on the hardwood.

Head lolled into a dip in his shoulder because the puppet wire snapped. Kissed her temple, his lips lingered, kept his head bowed against hers for a few seconds because she was alive. She was there. She was in his arms and God, he'd missed it.

"I was just afraid to hurt you." They were halfway up the stairs and she'd barely moved. Hollow body hollow. Trees in the winter, stripped and bared. All gnarled teeth and cragged limbs. At the end of her limp legs, feet dangled, toes snowflaked. Her whole body was an effigy he constructed out of sticks and hay.

The hand from his neck swept the outline of his hair. Curved around his ear and rubbed the lobe. Always caught the same flesh. Between thumb and forefinger. Between the pair of the most perfectly plump and moist lips he's ever seen. Between one of those lips and two front teeth. "You were."

"I didn't—"

"I know."

Fixed pillows to prop her up and set her on her side of the bed. On fresh sheets so there was no chance of infection. In those months he learned everything he ever did about laundry. He sat at her feet, combed his fingers between the warm coolness of her toes. Held them like he would hands. Drowned his smile. "I promise I won't treat you any differently, but you have to let me help you, Jules. You can't be independent. Not right now."

"Who said I wanted to be." The heel of her foot weakly shoved his thigh and he chuckled once. Used both hands to catch her jumpy foot and placed a kiss just below her ankle. When he glanced up, her arms were spread as wide as she could manage and she beckoned, "Come here."

Her embrace doused him in flame retardant concern. The kind they gave each other when the other had been trapped in a building full of meth addicts with guns, or exploded, or knocked out, or in a car accident. He felt the humidity of her breath steam and wisp at the nape of his neck. Collected her hair like a bouquet so it wouldn't get caught between them. "I never wanted you to leave Sam. I just didn't want to be a burden."

"You're not a burden." His lips touched the skin on her neck once. A passing imprint which meant and still means eternity. Shook his head and his ear touched her cheek. Her close-fisted hand thumped once against the cords of his neck. Not hard, leaves from a tree or snow from a rooftop. "You'll never be a burden. I can't lose you, Jules. I can't."

Before they went to sleep he had to change her bandages. Jagged morbid sewing machine tracks which made her the mirror image of herself. It disturbed him. Still haunted him until recently. Until a more grotesque image replaced it and the thought of her now, her body now and what's happened to it, doesn't think it. Can't say it. Can never say it. Gets upset when other people say it. When he knows other people are thinking it. Can't even imagine what would happen if she said it. Thinks his poorly constructed world in a snow dome would get turned upside down and shattered. Vital fluids leaking out.

"The back looks fine." Spread antibacterial ointment over the stitches, skin pulled tightly together like the seams on leather shoes. Brail bumps popped into her back. A piece of the past, a memory of him failing her marred into her skin. Thought he would be fine with it. Thought eventually he would grow desensitized to the sight of the stitches, the removed stitches, the scar. But he never did. The first time he couldn't. The scar broke him. They only managed to have sex a handful of times afterward and each time wasn't like before. He held back, afraid he'd shatter her. Rip open old wounds and see right through her. Through the bed sheets. Through the floor. Through the grass and sod and earth. Straight to hell.

Placed a new piece of gauze, downy like early morning snow, over the thread and brutalized skin. Skin the color and smoothness of rhododendrons blooming in her backyard. Fragrant and welcoming. He taped the pad into place and kissed her shoulder. "Let me see the front."

Her bare legs arched sideways from her body. Left hand flexed behind her ribs, stretched as much as she allowed. It rested in the small of her back; the curve followed a natural course like a river. Skin smoothed out like water flowing through pebbles. Thumb slept above the band of her panties. He got her into the habit of keeping her left arm behind her. Then she wasn't as apt to bring it crashing down like a guillotine on his hand from the pain. It also stretched out her underused muscles.

Right arm reached across her chest. Forearm sheltered her right breast and her hand cupped her left so he could get at the exit wound. Usually didn't do this. Usually he was left seeing the bruised masses they'd become. Beautiful, soft porcelain skin poisoned by sheer brutality. What he thought was sheer brutality. Saw the dive he loved deflate and become filled with the jagged railroad spikes of her ribs.

Glanced at her for a second in curiosity from her pose. Almost something from a renaissance painting. She grunted, rolled her eyes. Her cheek came close to resting against her shoulder as she tried to keep her back straight. The pillow was failing as a support system. "I don't want you to get any ideas, Braddock."

He chuckled. She was shaking, in pain, shot straight through, stripped and still sarcastic as hell. Knew she was tired. Eyelids rested half open, gray sheen tarnished the brown irises covert under thick fanned lashes. Bottom half of her face hidden against her shoulder. "Just let me clean this and get you a shirt. You can take your pills and go to bed."

Gauze on her front wound was blotched and bloated with yellow spheres. A lava lamp of bad news. The front was always worse, which he's never understood. Bigger, darker, bleed more, seeped more. Stared him in the face. Challenged him. "I've got to clean this up a little."

Wrapped her half in the comforter while he used a clean cloth damped in warm water to clear away the crust growing at her seams. She had a shower that morning, but overexerted herself during the day which could have lead to leakage. Seams and leakage. She was an engine on one of those old cars in comedic cartoons, steam seeped and cuffs rattled with instability. Loops were red and swollen.

"It's fine." She answered with chattering teeth. Floral comforter bloomed around her face like her garden in the morning. Not wilted in the evening sunsets. Not lost in the jungle of uncut, forgotten grass. Not buried with her body in a different consequence. "Sam, I'm exhausted."

For the first time ran his fingertips around the periphery of the stitches and felt the fiery cavern beneath. No flesh. No muscle. No bone. No heartbeat. Felt vomit churn in the back of his throat while his fingers withdrew without their prints because he'd touched coals. "What if you don't wake up?"

She smiled softly. Wearily. Dull eyes disappearing into puffy wrinkles. Touched his burned fingers with hers. Frozen, trembling, like icicles hanging off an eavesthrough in a blizzard. "I'll wake up. I'll tell you if I don't feel well. I promise."

And he was back in the hospital with her. Her hand, frail, cold, seizing with pain and fear consumed him. Masticated him. Her voice grated against her throat from days of no sleep. Begged him for an out. To be her back when she didn't have one. To not treat her differently when she didn't want to be, but needed to be.

Circled the stitches cautiously with ointment, and placed a new sheet of gauze down. Old sheets spreading out on her living room floor while Santorini sky spread out on her walls. Her hair spread out beneath her while her legs spread around his hips. Santorini paint stained and got everywhere.

Guided noodled arms through the holes of one of his t-shirts. None of hers were loose or long enough. None were comfortable enough. He wasn't complaining. They carried her perfume for months afterwards as he found out, a negative in a breakup situation. Pleasant when he needed a quick memory before hopping into an extra long shower and feeling dirtier when getting out.

Closed hand thrust two or three times on the pill bottle lid. It was definitely child proof. It was drunk proof. It was recovery proof. It was SRU trained sniper proof. Finally it popped. The lid flipped across the room, hit one of her dresser drawers and clattered to the ground. His hand slapped over the opening, kept the pills from flooding over the rim.

Gifted her two strong pain pills and a bottle of water three days old from the side table. Barely awake, dressed in one of his favorite gray t-shirts, she could barely raise her hand to her mouth. Gulped down water. Swallowed pills. He wondered if it filled the cavern in her chest, or trickled around the area.

"I'm gonna clean up a bit." Helped her lie back. Had her arms around his neck. His hands planted on her lower back, her jutting hips. Shifted her lower until she was comfortable. There was only a minimal amount of pained hissing. He wondered if the front grin was seeping again. "I'll be back in ten minutes, okay?"

Was actually less than ten minutes. Just ran downstairs, checked the locks, shut off the living room lights, ran back upstairs. He recapped the pills, tossed the cloth into the laundry, brushed his teeth, washed his face and pissed. But by the time he got back to the bed she was asleep. Dead asleep. A mixture of exhaustion, ingrained pain, and high-level medication.

For the first time that night in eight weeks, he held her while they slept. Dragged her from her potion of the bed to the purgatory in the middle. Wrapped her up in his arms, because they were better than a blanket, or wires and tubes, or earth and insects. Held her, healthy chest to battered and boiled chest all night long because he felt the film reel movements within her. Felt the way, even while unconscious, her body struggled. Felt in case she stopped because he didn't trust the inflamed gash on her front.

She awoke a little before dawn. Her face nuzzled at his collar. In the last two weeks he garnered the ability to snap awake at her slightest movement. Leftover from his Afghanistan days. That night he slept in fifteen minute intervals every hour, lest her chest relieve its torments. She laughed once into his bare skin. It was so weak, like the cheep of a newborn chick, but it was a laugh. "This hasn't happened in a while."

Directed her upward. Sturdy hands rerouted on her hips, shifted her slowly until her chin rested on his shoulder and his face bobbed in the nape of her neck. Wasn't even tired. Just like when she first woke up. He hasn't slept in years. He hasn't slept since he was born. The relief, the relief erased all negativity. "I can't lose you."

Hand returned to his ear. Her fingers were warm from their shared body heat. Thumb and forefinger rubbed his earlobe and inadvertently, he felt some of that fatigue roll back behind his eyes. Her lips replaced her fingers, kissed his ear, and a shiver ran through him. Felt those lips grin so early in the morning. "You never will. "

But as his shoes create ripples in the pond at his feet, someone approaches her. A black mar separating from the surge, disrupting the flow of the room. The detached cops. The faceless nurses. The asshole doctors. Stops a few feet before her, straddles the imaginary line. Deciding whether to force himself into what happened by taking a seat next to her, or remain uninvolved by staying on the periphery. Must call to her, because she flinches.

He's seen her flinch in pain. Almost hourly for four months straight as he mopped up flaky peels or viscous fluid drooling from two wounds. Saw the black skin transform purple, then red, then yellowish brown. The flinches loitered. Untapped nerve endings only partially severed, partially deadened. Just waiting to die. They were all just waiting to die.

He's only seen her flinch from fear, unadulterated fright, three times. Once was when the doctor tried to grab her. The other two scare him more. Plant seeds of panic within him, because there's nothing he can do about the other two. Doesn't really have the full story, but he knows they're connected. Knows they're bad enough to make her quiet, passive, withdraw into herself and wild-eyed with anxiety.

But Spike sits beside her. Uninvited by a nod or any other remedial gesture. Just shares the bench with her like it's a completely natural occurrence. Points at her, speaks something to her, only views the back of his head. Her face, the viable part of her mouth which has lips he can interpret aim at her lap so he can't eavesdrop on the conversation from across the monumental lobby. Collects his thoughts, massages his mind. Searches in the dark corners with a flashlight for the solace he should have knowing she's not alone. That she has someone to rely on, even if it isn't him this time. Never asked for it to be him the first time, or this time for that matter. But now that it's not—

Spike's fingers solidify on her shoulder. Unravel captured hair to free her neck of its own confines. The bubbles harden. Plunk a thousand marbles in a cloth bag. A thousand marbles blocking his internal system. A thousand marbles choking him from the inside.

It's not that she refuses him or scorns him but accepts Spike's help. It's not the want or the possible need to be doing what Spike's doing. To be relishing in the softness of her hair. The memory of it ringed between his fingers while he dried it for her because she couldn't. The smoothness of it on his bare chest. Fanned out like the branches on a tree. What upsets him is the way Spike undertakes the task.

Doesn't pinch or pry or pluck at the knot attaching her to herself. Instead his fingers glean and reap her hair until it's straight and free. Immobilized locks detangle. Fall straight without a single kink, without any evidence of ever being frayed. Gathers each strand like fresh silk from a foreign land. Like a stalk of wheat from the field where she grew up buried.

Marbles boil in an empty vat of stomach acid, because the interaction is so natural between them. Doesn't treat Spike's hands like the doctor's. Doesn't cower, or duck her head. Doesn't kick him in the shin and leave a bruise with his own shoe. All he has are marbles, a bruise and a picture of them frozen at a parade. Her skin was so soft under his lips and her hips squirmed under the surprise his hands. No wait—He has a three-day-old coffee in his car too.

Spike isn't upset by her marring injuries. Obviously, he is upset, but he's not hampered by them. Not frightened by them, or made nervous. Not distracted by them. Maybe if he had a chance to see the riverbed of blood under her nose. The bruises, the handprints left in bruises on her back. Saw them and wanted to vomit. Saw them and wanted to punch a hole through the wall and into the next room. Saw them and wanted to punch that asshole's face until he started feeling ground underneath it. Those bruises are like permanent marker on the Mona Lisa. Can be painted over, but they'll always be there, just below the surface.

The cusp of one of his molars cracks under the pressure of his jaw. Dull, pulsing stress is a welcome anchor into the present. Into why he's at the police station. Can't watch her anymore. Wants to watch her. Needs to watch her. Can't watch her anymore. She's his every single thing which he can only view through the bars of his cage. They locked up the wrong guy.

Thinks she might smile as he crawls from his manmade ocean where he formed a solitary bluff in the middle of tumultuous waters threatening anything venturing too close to him. The smile is false. Weak like a twice dipped teabag. Meant to assuage whatever Spike is talking about as he leans forward, his arms swinging to his sides like the missing link. It's enough to satisfy him too. A smile burdened by bruises and markers. One multifaceted but he doesn't have to interpret at all. They locked away the wrong guy.

Exits the lobby, the ambiance of her, through an open archway and two plodding steps. The cashier is stuck in a kiosk protruding from the wall in the same manner as railway information booths. Carries two parking tickets in his hand. Sure he could've gone to court, argued with a judge, but he's a cop who hit a doctor. Sure he could've sent a cheque and been done with the whole fucking mess, but he's off work for a week because he's a cop who hit a doctor. So might as well come down to 'the old haunt' as everyone but him calls it and pay them himself.

Wind whistles through a crack in one of the bay windows. Lightning flashes, tosses itself upon the designs in the floor as he approaches the desk. A woman sits behind the bulletproof glass. She's wearing the standard uniform, sans the hat. Her dark brown hair is pulled tightly into a long ponytail. Her long legs are crossed and a romance novel sits pulverized in her lap.

Waits a few seconds, hoping his shadow playing across the barrier will attract her attention. But she keeps reading the book. Unknown raindrops slither down his legs, accosting and cold. He shakes his left leg to rid the unsettling feeling. Then the right. Then his sneakers cry against the ground.

Finger dips into her mouth and the wet pad flips a page, still unwary of him. Remaining behind the white line, he leans forward, knuckles rapping the glass until her dark eyes cycle to meet his. With huff she sets down the book with a robust shirtless man on the cover and rolls her chair closer. "Can I help you?"

"I need to pay these." Citations slip through the dome carved out of the glass. Her only means of directly interacting with the world. A hand snatches up the thick wads of paper with the quick predatory movements and brings them close to her face to read.

"You know you can pay these by mail, right?"

"I know," mutter adopts a harsh tone. Like he's arguing with Jules. Like he doesn't know how to do his job. You know you can—I know. Every single goddamn day, but as much as it was a nuisance, it was a pleasure. It was her caring. Her caring because he couldn't park his bike in the parking lot. It wasn't really a vehicle, that and the guys had already stolen it once.

Credit card passes through the dome, slipped through a machine. "Two tickets in one day, huh?"

Hands fall into pockets full of leftover rain and he shrugs at her innocently. Doesn't want to explain the whole mythology behind said tickets. How the love of his life is barely alive and he would gladly go bankrupt to blot that day off the calendar. Doesn't. Just tightly grins and answers, "Yeah, what are you going to do?"

Shoots his card back at him like an air hockey puck. Face already flattened in her romance noveled lap. "Learn to drive better?"

About to reply some generic remark. Some formatted response, but the lights falter with a particularly reproachful roar of thunder. Mimics the discharge of bullets so perfectly he recoils and spins because for a quarter second he was on a rooftop. Lights blink and flicker out as the computers hum a threnody in sudden death.

"Great." A moan behind him. The slamming of her book against the desk and her fist into the top of the computer. The blackout is counterbalanced by a backup generator which births spotlights illuminating the station in an eerie orange glow. Like walking down a back alley indoors.

The lobby snarls a crash and he can't not think of her. Think of her flinching. Of her flinching awake in the middle of the night once. Shoved him away with immediate, violent sobs and all her limbs. Heels, knees, elbows, palms all kneading his flesh in agitation. Called to her but she didn't stop. Spoke only sentences of half pleas. Flicked on the bedside lamp and her eyes were turned shut. Managed to clasp her cheeks. Spoke affirming words. Eyes white and waved with tears opened. Grabbed him, almost smothered him. Almost choked him. But he held her. Didn't ask what or why. Just held her.

Can't pretend she's not in the lobby. Like they're strangers who don't know each other. Like she's just some woman. Some abused woman. Can't do that while knowing he would give every single thing down to his last heartbeat to go over to her and just hold her. Because maybe she needs to be held and not asked what or why.

Can't tell her he's so fucking thankful she's alive. That the picture won't be the only memory left, more could be cultivated. Sown haphazardly like meadows full of beautiful wild flowers or an unkempt backyard. Can't call her because by now she's probably blocked his number. If he was still with her, he'd tell her to block his number if he was acting like this.

But he can risk a peripheral glance as he darts through the lobby. Black decked cops all gathered by the window like kids around a campfire. There's no sign of her. No hint of her. No remnants of her. Couldn't even tell she was there. Bench bare and empty, sitting in the limelight of an eerie orange glow. The only other person in the lobby besides the cops is a tall guy in cuffs being forced down the same corridor he was forced down four days before. They locked up the wrong guy.

Marbles clench and clack in his stomach. Pile on each other like a spherical pyramid. Has nowhere to go. Suspended from work. Had no where he'd rather be. Just wants to be with her, no matter how she is. What she is. Who she is. She'll always be the same Jules to him. Knows her like people know the words to a song. Sometimes he forgets the tune, but he always remembers in the end. Always remembers.

Needs to drown out the tune. The marbles. The memories. Can't go to the gym. Lexus might be at the gym. Another brick in the wall. Another foot in the grave. Another bullet in a chest. Can't deal with it. With all of it. With some of it. With any of it. Needs to relax. Needs a release. Needs to not be juggling marbles and pictures and coffee and the past with the present in the odors of her living room floor. Last time he felt like this he punched a doctor in the face and everything went over the cliff from there.

No. Everything went over the cliff when an asshole named Scott put his hands on her and—living room floor. Can't just can't. Outside it's not raining anymore. Deluge all dried up. The sky is gray with the presence of more rain. The all encompassing threat. Earthworms gasp against the pavement. The ones that survived. And his console is covered in chunky coffee vomit.

* * *

><p>"Barrel down, Spike."<p>

Ed's shoulder banks into his while breezing by, nose of his rifle near dragging on the floor. Draws an imaginary line between acceptable and not for them all to play jump rope with. From the back of a pale, hairless head, he knows Ed is grinning. Knows the grin is smug. Why wouldn't it be? Has nothing to worry about. Left the woman in his care, their teammate—Jules for fuck sake. Left Jules at the goddamn police station by herself to encounter that guy by herself.

He drove her home. When they made it to the lobby, Ed disappeared. Maybe he melted into the pot of collective cops. Maybe he was off chasing a little white trash bobblehead tail. Didn't matter. Just meandered with Jules through the lobby, copied her slow pace. Brought her out into street which felt like a major milestone. The constant tap of rain dried, but the wind shipped up leaves and trash from the ground. Flung debris across the parking lot.

His car is not cool. It's not sportive or sleek. It's not imposing or masculine. It's a white 1992 Toyota Camry and its lame as hell. But it still runs and it doesn't use much gas. Jules smiled from the passenger's seat as he opened the driver's door and slammed it several times until the red light on the dash flickered off.

"I remember this car."

Earphones cling to the edge of a bench. String out a list of demands that fall upon numb ears. Anesthetized by apathy, not the bellowing of bullets. Synthetic thunder rolls tucked into a barrel. The first shift back, only they're three team members short and can't be safely cleared for actual duty. So instead it's drills. It's giving four men, who have or should have pent up rage, guns and telling them to shoot the stagnant targets. Telling them to run through a course. Now again. Now better. Now with more gear. Telling them to rappel from the roof during a thunderstorm because inclement weather isn't an excuse not to practice. The skies were all blue, black and gray.

Next week they're bringing in a new member, who isn't supposed to be called Lew's replacement but for all sense of logical purpose, is Lew's fucking replacement. Next week when Sam comes back from his suspension. Doesn't know how he's going to deal with Lew's replacement and Sam on the same day. Doesn't think he can. Told his therapist, or the government paid official who has to sit and listen to him wade through word vomit. Told her no one else cares what happened. To Lew. To Jules. They need to help her while they can but everyone is so goddamn self-centered. The therapist called him a masochist with a martyr complex.

"Spike." Earphones dangle at Ed's neck, an abstract winter scarf. He and Wordy fill gulping mouths of booths, impatient to start the session. Sarge is different. Different since the night he first saw her. Doesn't know why her destruction causes his deconstruction. Face is a mask, empty of sentiment, of care. Eyes don't blink, don't observe. Merely just is. "There a problem, Buddy?"

Imagines Ed saying the same words to someone he's pulled over for drunk driving. To someone not doing exactly what he wants when he wants. Right now he wants to shoot targets because it's stimulating. All so self driven. So pleasure driven, which is exactly what Jules was on the receiving end of.

"Yeah there's a problem." Earphones plummet; gain the courage to jump and end with an anticlimactic clatter against concrete. Pot lights swell above him, burst forth endless rays of fluorescence, but he's in an alley. The bad kind of alley, where he can't piss on tagged walls and get away with it because she's not here. "None of you care. Why don't you care?"

"Spike." Ed's feet devour concrete in forceful steps. Heels of his shoes jackhammer. Head shakes once with a huff, exudes his aggravation like they've had this conversation before. Like he's a child who repeatedly does things he shouldn't. Touching hot cookies and getting smacked with a rolling pin. Mixing chemicals and struggling for weeks with a sling as penance. Well penance beside the however many Hail Marys earned from the other Father. "We had some time to deal with it, but now it's time to get back to work."

"What?" Three days. Three days? Less than a hundred hours and they're supposed to be adjusted with what happened. Not only adjusted but accustomed to it. Like what happened to her always happened. Was always there. Was unstoppable. Isn't enough time for a computer to process lines of data in ones and zeroes. Isn't enough time for a post office to process a single Christmas card. Isn't enough time to sift through a shoe box of photos. "What?"

Wordy shuffles forward until he grows in even stance with Ed. Forever an opposite but forever a wingman. Wonders in how many ways. Wonders if Wordy knows what illicit activities go on in police station washrooms. "I know it hurts, Spike. But we knew another person would have to join the team to offset Lew's passing."

"What? I'm not talking about Lew." There's nothing more they can do for Lew. Can't collect all the fragments of him and tape him back together like a secured document run through a shredder. Lew is gone. He's not coming back. Everything they could have done for him was nullified when five team members stood behind a barrier of squad cars with muzzled and pulled faces while he frantically buzzed for his best friend's life.

"What are you talking about then?"

It frightens him, because he honestly doesn't know. Not what he's talking about. Is sure of what he's talking about. But he doesn't know about them. About the bleakness, the coldness wadding in a plumbing pipe. Not even the primeval masculinity resulting in rage, because to employ fury, they'd have to care. That's their reality now. Offer solace to complete strangers, and the cold shoulder to companions. The blockage offers no alternative, and no flow. Cancerous in a way, but hey, they'll bounce back. "I'm talking about Jules."

Ignores the slapped remains of earphones. A random spectator on the street for this one. Body splattered dyeing the pavement in leagues of crimson paint. And he's upset because they sequestered the street he uses to get to his car. The street with his favorite bar a little downwind and urine stained. "Did you guys forget what happened to her? I mean, I guess it would be easy."

"Spike—"

"Have you gone to see her yet? Have you even talked to her?"

Refractions of regret, of remorse, of re-experience pinwheel in the dart of Wordy's eyes. The tips of his gloved hand twitch on the handle of his nosedived rifle, knock the tip into the cement. Etch the barrel into the porous surface. "It's not that easy."

"It's only as hard as you make it. You helped Shelley—"

"Spike." A jagged warning scratched out from the back of Ed's throat. The scolding of a puppy half stuck in a capsized garbage can. The constant reminder of hierarchy through superiority, through dominance, through lack of humanity. "You're poking at—"

"Don't start with me, Ed." Molars shave against each other, rock enamel. Provoked family mascot, jabbed too many times with the blunt end of a broom handle. Thrown down too many times at recess. Beaten too many times in the quad. Punched too many times because of commercials. "I know what you did to her yesterday."

"You—you took her home?" Rearranges the blame like colored squares on a Rubik's cube. White. Pure white and from there everything gets more diluted, more likely to fail. Click and a clack as facial features fall expertly into place to match. Eyebrows burrowing to discontent. "Spike, that's interfering with orders on a sec—"

"And what you did wasn't." White isn't pure at all. It's lacking. It's like someone wanted a color and forgot to add in the components. Forgot and set the recipe anyway. Cooling cannoli on a wire rack, stubby fingers wiggling at their sight under leaden black eyes. "Did you know the guy was there? In the lobby?"

Attention should feel warm, like the brief touch of cannoli in his hand before it's swatted away with the rolling pin or wooden spoon or other cooking implement of death. It doesn't, it bristles off of his like dry ice. It's unnatural and tries to cloak his body when he resists. Flush prickles at his cheek, but he doesn't turn away. She wouldn't turn away. "Oh yeah. Basically walked right up to her because you abandoned her."

"Eddy." Sarge's hand engulfs his face, his voice slips through the slits in his fingers like steam from a grate. Removed. Emotionally and physically as he stoops against the edge of a booth five feet back, chin to his chest in a shameful bow. Removed. Mind, body and soul. What remains is the shadow of a man who could once heal them all, and now can't even begin to help himself.

"What's with you?" Borders Wordy and Ed, limbs rigid but at his side. There's nothing physical to this, he just wants answers, maybe wants to educate, but with his method. No one ever has to get hurt. Especially if they don't deserve it. "I know you care about her Sarge. In a different way, I know you care." Pressures Jules more, expects more of Jules, but somehow is more lenient of Jules. She rappels down the building and gets a quirky eyebrow and a finger waggle. He parks the rig a little askew and gets roared at like he hit a little girl. "I know you're hurt, but think about how much she's hurting."

A shriek exits the metal door scoping open slowly onto the noiseless range. Expects an operations officer slinging questions about the turbulent shouting match and the lack of ammo casings. Arguing with live ammo and guns at delicately placed fingertips isn't exactly recommended when the team is a sinew away from snapping. But the reprimand from a nameless, needless officer never happens. Over time team ties root their way through everyone, whether he likes them or not. Members just find their way back to each other; attract each other at integral moments. It's a perk and major fault of being on a team.

After the incident at the meth warehouse and observing Jules' interaction with Sam, he gracefully bowed out for medical attention. Missed debrief and the changing of the guard, the sprint to get out of the lot and the downtown traffic at rush hour. He measured the distance around the stale piece of gauze with his thumb and middle finger. Pressure exuded through the tips like an ink covered quill tearing at paper. Chipped like paint and dried blood. Stopped planting fingers around his temple when the little licks of pain flourished like a prodded fire. Like an irritated dog, turned and snapped.

Vision of his face, pale and rocky in the close up of the water speckled mirror blurred as gym bags dropped behind him on the bench. Shook his head as he picked up a few extra things from the floor and shoved them into his unzipped duffle, lips sealed with a hint of a taunting grin.

"It's not even that bad." Stood full stature, retained his exhalation as his hands met his hips. Grin budded. Always grinning, smiling, just happy. Was so easy for him to be happy. "You need to get over yourself."

"I got shot. In the head." Sure he was perched on the counter of the vanity, a few pounds of weight away from knocking all the sinks from their outlined graves. Wanted to get a close up view of the stitches in his head. If the junkies hadn't been high or in withdrawal, they probably would've shot out chunks of his brain.

"No. Kennedy got shot in the head. Lincoln got shot in the head. All those other guys in the warehouse, they got shot in the head. You—" Portioned his fingers to hold a minimal distance between each other as his eyes narrowed aiding in the meagerness. "You just got a little kiss from a bullet."

"Can we stop at the pharmacy on the way home?" Mirror fogged with the afterbite of his voice. The phantom presence of things unseen.

"You wanna pick up some pills?"

"Nah, for my Ma." Nudged off the counter and listened to the pipes moan. It was way after shift. Nearing three hours. Lew and him went to the hospital so they could sew up a gorge in his head. Made sure nothing vital was hit. He recited his ABCs, his 123s and spoke a little Italian to get the faintly attractive nurse to cock an eyebrow his way. "She's going to need tranquilizing."

Grin stretched on his lips as he hiked both bags up onto his shoulders. Nodded to the doorway. "I'll tell Michelina what happened."

Feet a little loaded, squeaked as he dragged them across the ground from a butterfly filled head. Brain a landscape. Just a meadow with butterflies. Usually in his stomach but migrated north for the summer. To offset the airy flaps, his feet alternated between steps he called cement shoes and falling sides. Stopped at the propped door to the howling of air vents and the nonfunctioning lights. Dead until they sensed movement.

"Mic—You're on a first name basis with her now?"

"We talk a lot Spike." Shoved him into the hallway and into the spotlight of the first square beam. Team Three was out on a call. Everything else was silent. Disconcerting to him when headquarters is inactive. "We talk about you sometimes." Lew lumbered behind him. Forced him to set off the next beacon, then the next. "Mostly about your dad though. How he's spending too much time at work and how she gets lonel—"

"Stop. Stop." Reinforced himself against the corner wall which spat into the lobby. Right foot took an unplanned, lead laden step. Wondered if the floor below had flakes of plaster snowing down from his slow Roman death march. "For the love of God, whatever we're doing you win. Just—" Pushed an openly chuckling Lew away with a hand centered on his thick chest. "Just stop."

"Oh" Chuckled louder, a deep baritone reverberation echoing like a vacant church bell in his chest. "Don't make me tell Michelina that you—"

"Shh." Held a hand up. Single, five-digit action they all recognize means shut the hell up. When Lew grunted, his vocal chords threatening to ring out, he pointed to the elevators. Sam and Jules approached. Didn't notice them though they were showered in the majority of the remaining light.

Lew craned his head around the corner and his face clumped into a grimace. "So?"

"So what are they doing here so late?" Stood beside each other at the elevators. Didn't participate in physical displays, but they were close. Closer than he and Lew stood. "Why are they together?"

Lips slanted across his face in a confused scowl. He shrugged, partly out of disinterest and to raise the bag straps against his sagging shoulders. "Does it matter? Look, her vest took a couple bullets right? Maybe he's—"

"Are we really going to act like we don't know exactly what's going on?"

"Okay Dick Tracy, we haven't actually seen—"

Hand flashed up as an argument between their teammates erupted. Sam dropped his bag to the ground, cocky grin slapped on his face as he turned towards her. She kept her eyes on the elevator doors, ignored his sudden need for conversation. "You're really angry at me because I offered to carry your bag?"

A breathless scoff burst from her mouth. Hands angled on her hips, large brown purse hung from her arm like a Christmas tree ornament as she swung towards him. Shook her head, mouth recollaberated, and leaned forward to punch the button again. "I don't understand your obsession with needing to carry my—"

"You got shot Jules. You got shot th—"

"Spike, got shot."

"Ha," he goaded over his shoulder to Lew. His dark eyes low, filled with an intensity he's only witnessed few times. Lips didn't quite meet and his inhalations were drawn heavy through the gape.

"You got shot too. Three times." Sam looped three fingers to his palm and imitated a gun the way kids do when they play cops and robbers. Extended thumb and forefinger. Tapped her in the middle of her back, in the center of her stomach, and on the left side of her ribcage. The three Xs where bullets would've tunneled through had she not been wearing such a fine vest. The last, at her ribs, has always been ironic to him. Less than half a year later a vest would fail her in the same spot.

Hand swatted his away. He sighed, not in irritation but emotionally upset. His punished hand raked through his hair and his eyes fell to the floor like he was getting detention in grade school. "I know you're in pain, Jules. Even though you won't tell me, I know it. I just thought that carrying your bag would—"

"It's not a bag." Flipped around from where she abused the elevator panel, fist pounded the buttons already highlighted in red. Both up and down arrows. Eager to get away. Just flick, and started screaming at Sam.

"She's going to give it to him." Lew chuckled softly, it gurgled in his throat. They were being stealth. Actually being voyeurs as they watched from around thick concrete corner. The light above flickered off as she tore into Sam about the bag. He felt like chuckling too until Lew elaborated, "I mean the purse. He'll end up carrying it out for her."

"It's a purse, Sam. A purse. It has my lip gloss in it—"

"You're kidding me?" She was practically flailing in the romantically lit lobby. It actually looked like she might kill Sam. Hey, he was all for it. Would pop out and help her bury the body. Then pay for the congratulatory beers. Anything was better compared to the realistic conclusion. "She's not going to let him touch her."

"It has the high heeled shoes I'm too tired to wear right now i—"

"I've known her longer than you. She's into him."

"Oh I'm sorry Perry Mason. You want to enlighten me on your theory?"

"It has the curling iron you constantly question me ab—"

"She ever yell at you like that?" Fuck. Well no. She'd yelled at him. Yelled at everyone. She was Jules. If you got her angry, she was going to yell. But this was pent up. It was in entirety like an infection. An all day sort of rant that he could picture continuing well into the drive home and up the driveway while they put away groceries.

"It has tampons in it Sam, because it's a mother fucking purse. Not a bag." Stopped her rant. Her anger. Hitched it like a breath in her supposedly bruised abdomen. Just stood and waited. Challenged him. Dared him to reply with anything that wasn't in the same species as a white flag.

"Jesus, then will you let me carry your lip gloss, high heel, curling iron, tampon filled purse for you?" Dear God it was like watching a snake and a mongoose fight. One's poisonous and the other has claws and they just kept tearing into each other. Always wondered how their relationship was buoyant. How it wasn't taking in water and pavement surfing until the majority of was covered in road rash.

But her scornful expression broke. Like a shattered plate against a wall which he could imagine happened at some location after they left the lobby. Mouth twanged into a smile. Sam's face was a monument of unflappable mirth. Calm eyes, soft brows, wide smile, but to him, emitted pure arrogance.

Laughed at Sam. Smile cracked the strictness of her face until the bricks of her expression crumbled away into a full faced grin. Without another word spoken on the subject, with some stiffness probably due to bruises, she slid her purse down her arm. He hooked his fingers through the straps. Adopted it onto his arm. Smothered her jaw with his hand and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I told you." Lew boasted in a hushed tone. Sam and Jules retreated in an elevator. He snaked his arm around her waist, yanked her closer as the doors closed behind their bodies.

"They shouldn't be dating." Muttered when he was sure they were in the parking lot downstairs. His throat compressed against the wall, felt his Adam's apple fail to bob when he tried to swallow.

"Because we all work together? That's a shitty excuse." Shoved at his shoulder to get him back in motion. People herding camels in the desert. "She's into him. Leave them alone."

"Because she let him carry her purse? That doesn't mean anything." Stomped forward to the area still heated with tension. With convoluted anger. Felt it sizzle off the ground in curls, water on a hot skillet. "You're carrying my bag. I'm not into you."

"That hurts Man." Clamped a hand over his heart, clown mouth drooped downwards into a feigned frown as they waited for the elevator to climb back up the levels. "I'm telling Michelina about that one."

The painful noiselessness fragments with the addition of Sam's drops. Water herding off his jacket in rivers, falling in drips. Plinking against the dusty floor. The shared and bound roots run thick and he senses them, the embers of recrimination jolting and indignation slathered thick in the atmosphere. Freezes at the end of the lane, hands pausing on the collar of his rain steeped jacket.

"You." It's the first gun he shoots today. Not a gun literally. In metaphors, in his mind. Just a cross extended index finger stabbing to Sam, his hair beading teardrops. Face completely innocent and neutral but won't allow him contact with insomnia set eyes. Shrugs off his jacket, drooling pooling water, and splats it to a vacant bench. "You're the worst out of everyone."

"I didn't come here to fight, Spike." A forfeiting mumble. Eyes swaying across the floor like garbage whirlwinding through the parking lot. Like her legs kicking through the air from the back of her Jeep. A steady nervous flow he stole from her. "I just wanted to—"

"She needs us. If she ever needed us, which is disputable as hell, she needs us now." Marks a halfway point between Sam and the sentinels Ed and Wordy imitate. Tries to find neutral ground, but there is none. Both sides harm for self success. Watch the world slather in flames under the guise of a hero and he doesn't know if he can do it anymore. Doesn't know if he wants to do it anymore.

Sam's face peels from the floor, skin flushing a dark red camouflaging his eyebrows, only the rough outline of the bone visible. Enhances the angle of his cheeks and chin. Edging the roughness around swollen, irritated eyes. "She sent me away, Spike."

"Because every single goddamn thing you do is selfish." Heat in the palms of his hands, courses up his arms. The flames of an annihilated world. Satellites ablaze and tumbling down from the sky. The back draft of wind after the explosion, when human flesh, is so strong it disabled his ability to vomit. Because he knew the human. The repeatedly sacrificed friend who doesn't understand why. Why? But knows in her beautiful eye, exactly why. "You don't do it for her. You're not there for her. You're there for yourself."

"Spike maybe—"

"No. I'm done. I'm gonna go." Head finally balances on overweighed scales. On scales uneven since his first day. Becomes buoyant on the release of venomous, violent words. The acidity from his stomach paving its way up his throat subsides to a roiling in his stomach. Alienated, but completely doesn't give a shit. Spoke up for her when she couldn't. From lack of contact. From lack of confidence. Played role reversal and he'd do it again.

Hesitates upon entering Sam's water world. His sullying of equipment and workplace endangerment with tricky slips and falls. More around here is broken than hips. Things unseen that matter so much more. Pauses his body, relaxes it, muscles no longer waiting for an attack. Expression turns confused, desiring to understand with angled brows and a yanked mouth.

"It's just—we all watched Lew die. We all stood there and didn't do a fucking thing to save him. Everyone keeps telling me it was for the best but—What I'm trying to say is she's dying. She's dying in front of us, and you won't do anything about it because you're afraid of what she might say? Because she makes you feel uncomfortable? What the hell kind of team are we? What the hell kind of men are we?"

"It's not that easy." Sam's voice begins as a mumble, but the softness, the passivity is paralyzed. It's carnal. The caveman at full throttle being forced to ponder things which upset his underdeveloped brain. Confuse, and frustrate him. "She's stubborn. She won't accept help even if—"

"Then you're not trying hard enough." A blank statement. Said with nonchalance. Knows how he treats her. How it seems fifty-fifty. An equal and viable relationship. It's not. His suggestions are for his gain. His suggestions for her to move out of her house are for his gain. "You can't hide her away from the world now Sam and have everything be undone. It happened, it's always going to have happened. Our job is coping with it. Helping her cope with it in any way she'll let us."

"And you're willing to let her stay in that house, by herself while she endures more psychological trauma from—"

"It's her house Sam." Pried the sledgehammer from her hand. Dragged it from the hall closet. Intended to finish the work her head started. Had to replace the panel of drywall. But she sloped to one side dragging the tool roughly against the polished hardwood floors. Spoke calmly as he removed it, found a sheet and pinned it up over head holes. Two sets of handprints. Two sets but that still doesn't give him a right to a house. A right to decide. "No matter how much you want to torch the place because of what happened, she still lives there. I don't know why you can't—"

"Because I lo—" aborts his sentence. But it's too late because meaning can be reconstructed from the fragments.

"Do you? Do you really?" Some weak voice in the back of his mind tells him he's verging in on old wounds. On territory that doesn't need to be treaded on. Ignores the voice. Caveman cudgel beats the voice into submission and locks it in a deeper vault, because when these issues were current issues he didn't get to wet his lips. "Well you must, the way a piece of you got shot out up on that rooftop—no wait, that was Jules."

"Fuck you, Spike." Shakes his head in disappointment. At him. At himself. In both because they're both true. He didn't have to bring it up in such a blunt knifed manner. But Sam doesn't love her. Love isn't supposed to hurt. Love isn't a one sided occurrence. Sam seizes his jacket off the bench, the screech of wet fabric against dry metal echoes in the silence as he retreats.

"You didn't really take the bullet for her; so much as use her for a human shield."

Doesn't know why he says it. What makes him say it. But it's what he's always truly felt. There were only two people up on the roof. One of them took the shield and left the other completely bare. That's not an action which equivocates love to him. Doesn't know why he thought killing the sniper would be an easy trade off. Hey, Jules got shot but I shot the shooter so we're alright. A life for a life is not karmic restoration, it didn't fill the hole in her chest.

Doesn't even realize Sam's buckled fist is flying at his face before it grounds into his eye socket. Then again at his cheekbone. There's a flash of colors like in old cartoons when characters open a closet and everything falls on them. Merry-go-rounds of olive greens and fuchsias tire tracking their way round the inside of his eye.

Tastes the off blight of blood. Is it salt. Is it metal. It's a copper flow ebbing its way between his cracked lips. Into his mouth. Remembers high school and getting shoved in the lockers. Remembers grade school and getting beaten up in the bathroom on break. Remembers home, Vinnie punching him in the face and taking his Halloween candy.

Then as his knees knock in the umpteenth knockout of his lifetime, his fist grows solid. Thumb plants under four wheat rows and then plows back into Sam. Wouldn't hit the guy. There were too many regulations behind hitting the guy who raped the only friend he's got left. He'll sure as hell beat the shit out of Sam.

Anger riles up within him. The anger he's been quelling for days, for weeks, for years because his Ma always taught him good boys don't fight. Well Ma, sometimes things don't get done in the world without a good fight. Without some casualties. And it'd better be him before it's Jules.

With stark blindness, his fist loads, springs back and then punches again. Slams into Sam's eye hard enough for the bones in his fingers to crack. Not in pain, but in relief, like people do while they wait in casual idiosyncrasies. A brilliant idea hits him the same time Sam's fist does again and he uses both. Like he does with Jules when they sparred. Knuckles sow in the side of Sam's nose. In the corner of Sam's mouth.

"Enough. Enough." Arms circle around his biceps. Hold him back. Secure him down as his heels squeal and smoke off the floor.

"You let that go on for too long." Half of his vision is diminished. Not even tunneled, but completely eradicated. Distinguishes Wordy supporting Sam in the same method he's being detained. Eyebrows and mouth all angered lines.

"I thought they would tire themselves out." Ed almost chuckles. Can almost feel him shrug. Like the whole thing, everything that's happened has been just one big joke. Caveman wishes he could feed him the punch line. Wishes he could ask how his bathroom breaks are going. If he's getting docked pay for them. If they burn.

"Do you guys need medical?" Sarge finally appears. Not the real Sarge, the thing still masquerading in his skin. Portraying his character in a play. Eyes half-lidded and voice monotone he glances them over once. Sam stands, glaring at him. Snorts like a bull set to decide the dominant. "Go to the briefing room. I'll draw up the papers."

Sam wrenches his arm away from Wordy with a final grunt. Shrugs his shoulders like he's completely oblivious to the road construction mess his face became or the valley of rainwater on the floor. Has a brief spark of joy in the thought that Sam might slip and fall.

He definitely won, maybe Sam wasn't trying hard. Maybe he knew he was right. Will probably be suspended. So will Sam. At this point wonders if Sam will ever be back at work. Will Jules? Is there a reason for him to be? Pauses at the door, Sam's already at the elevator. Figures it's best they aren't quarantined in small quarters for a bit. Raging bulls and all. Turns back to the three men who encompass the remainder of the Team. The elder part of the Team. The guidance, though they need it more than they offer.

"I'm going to be suspended right?"

Sarge detangles the mess of fingers permanently growing at his chin. Sight still flies low, maybe views his knees. Won't acknowledge him fully, even in punishment won't. Misses the days of slicing the rig against the parking garage wall, sucking his lips and chucking the keys at Lew. When he would wiggle his fingers at a keyboard whip up some high tech deus ex machina and Sarge would clap him on the back, express pride, something he never got at home. When they were a team, though it's hard to measure the exact time. Just something better than this.

"Go to the briefing room, Spike."

"Fine. Just do yourselves a favor and go see her. Even if she doesn't want to see you, at least make the effort. " They've only viewed the turmoil upon her face, bruised and blistered into her skin. Only imagined it there. He's experienced worse. Her thoughts, her feelings, her fears. Her current state-of-mind at near abandonment. Her willingness to accept responsibility for an act which she had no part in to bring back someone. Anyone. "If something happens to her, you won't—"

"The briefing room. Now."

"Yeah." Solemn with his pugulisted face all blue, black and gray, he marches away beaten in every sense. The elevator doors swallow him whole, and he presses the wrong button completely on purpose. Ignores the SRU floor number. Ignores direct orders. Ignores what other people demand of him, because when he pleads with them, begs them, he gets reprimanded. Not directly, but reprimanded. And he's tired of it.

* * *

><p><em>AN #2: Bored? Try to find all the similarities between Sam's piece and Spike's piece in this chapter._


End file.
